How to Disappear
by faithsette
Summary: Richard Castle is a best-selling author on a book tour. Kate Beckett is a young woman who ran from, and is still trying to deal with, her past. What happens when he meets her at a bar during his tour? AU.
1. Chapter 1

Hi everybody! This idea kept popping into my head and though I've never written any fanfiction before, I wanted to give it a shot! Any comments/feedback are more than welcome, and I'd love to hear from you guys on whether or not you'd be interested in this being continued!

**Disclaimer**: If I owned Castle I wouldn't be a poor college kid, but alas, I do not.

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><p>He looks out the hotel window with a sigh, disappointed with the sudden turn in the weather. It's been raining on and off all day, bouts of heavy downpours coming every few hours, and the sky is a dark gray, clouds covering up any semblance of light. He watches as water from the latest downpour cascades down the street, following the bends and curves of the curb. This is good weather for sitting at home with a cup of hot chocolate and his laptop, he admits, but not so much for travel.<p>

He's in Ann Arbor, Michigan for the first round of book tours, kicking off the release of yet another installment in the Derrick Storm series. It's the third book in the series, and much like its predecessors, it's been selling extremely well so far; he's proud of this one, if only a bit more than the others, because he feels himself getting a little better with each new book.

It took an astounding twenty one rejections before his first novel, _In a Hail of Bullets_, was finally accepted by a publisher. He's proud of the fact that he stuck it out, didn't let rejection after rejection keep him from pursuing his dream of becoming an author. Fast forward a few years, a couple best-selling books later, and here he is, in this hotel room, on another book tour.

He loves book tours for the most part, he really does. The fan interaction, seeing their reactions and hearing how the book has helped or touched them in some way – that's why he does what he does. That's what keeps him going, keeps him engaged at the book signings even when he's two seconds away from falling over. He has bad days, as everyone does, but he can't complain.

_Too much_, that is.

The end of the book tour is getting closer and he's exhausted. He knows that this is a part of the job, part of what he signed up for, but it can get monotonous. It's state after state, city after city, book store after book store, and sometimes he forgets where he is, has to ask his publicist so he doesn't say the wrong name at one of the signings.

Being away from his daughter, Alexis, is the hardest part of book tours. She's eight and while she was on her winter break the past week, he didn't feel right hauling her across the country for such an extended period of time. He misses her more than anything and he makes sure to call her every night, if only to hear her voice for a few minutes before bed, but he knows she's safe with his mother. She usually comes with him for a few days during the tour and then goes back home, but this time his schedule was more hectic. He usually has a few free days, but this time it's been cut down to one and he knew he wouldn't have the time to take her around as much as he'd want to. It's hard, but he knows it's worth it in the end. He's doing this for Alexis, to give her the best life he possibly can; she's an extraordinary little girl, one he's lucky enough to call his, and he'll do whatever he can to make sure she's happy and healthy.

He has a few more signings in Ann Arbor in the coming days before he heads to Canton, Detroit, and then back to New York to finish off the tour.

He's excited, having never been to Michigan for an event before. The people he's met so far have been the sweetest, the towns have a certain homey atmosphere to them, and he's pretty sure he heard something about a coffee shop with pastries that are to die for. _Later_, he tells himself.

His attention comes back to the gloomy overcast outside, his shoulders slumping at the sight. He's been cooped up in his hotel room for hours; there is no signing today and Gina, his publicist, dubbed it his "free day."

Figures it's his free day that has the shittiest weather, making it difficult to go out and really enjoy the scenery.

Gina told him that he should stay in the hotel in order to keep him from "getting mobbed" by a hoard of fans, but he doesn't think he can do it. She mentioned something about a hotel gift shop, and maybe he'll stop down there to get something for Alexis and his mother at some point, but it isn't exactly how he wants to spend his day.

It's silly, he thinks, that she doesn't want him to leave the hotel. It's not like he could get himself into any serious – okay, so maybe her concern does have some validity. But that was one time, and it wasn't his fault. He'd had a few drinks too many, thanks to the generous bartender, and the other writers dared him to streak down the street. Who was he to turn down such a challenge? He just happened to pass the police horse, sitting lonely on the side of the road as its owner took a lunch break. Jumping on the horse and taking it for a joy ride probably wasn't one of his finer moments, but the opportunity presented itself and he took it.

But the odds of that happening more than once are practically non-existent.

He'll be fine.

It's decided, then. The hotel is extremely nice, very elegant, and his almost-suite-like room is gorgeous, but it's becoming stuffy and he needs to get out into the fresh air. Even if it is gloomy post-rain.

He backs away from the window and strolls over to the desk, plopping into the chair and grabbing the phone so he can call the front desk.

"Hello," he greets the woman on the other end, "I'm planning on going into town today and was hoping you'd be able to suggest some nice coffee shops or restaurants in the area?"

He cradles the phone between his chin and shoulder as he grabs a notepad from the desk, scribbles down the names the receptionist is giving him.

"I appreciate it, thank you so much," he thanks her before putting the phone back on the receiver.

His eyes glance around the room, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his head. "Where are my shoes..." he mumbles to himself.

"Aha!" A few more seconds of looking had him finding the shoes in question – one under the bed and one on the other side of the room by the window. He's not sure how that happened, but just shakes his head.

He slides his jacket on and grabs his wallet, quickly making sure he has his hotel key and phone before he leaves the room.

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><p>He doesn't know exactly why he's standing in front of what seems to be a bar or how he ended up there in the first place. It's on the list of places the receptionist gave him, sure, but he didn't know it was a bar and he didn't set out to go there. He left the hotel, making his way down the alleys and streets, and made a couple of turns – wrong turns, apparently – in search of one of the small cafes he'd been told about.<p>

Looking at the place in front of him, he understands why the woman called it one of Ann Arbor's "hidden gems."

Babs Underground – a name that intrigues him, he'll admit – doesn't seem like a place you just _end up_ at. It's in the middle of the street, blending in with the row of brick buildings it's situated between. You'd miss it just walking down the street and if it wasn't for the small, unassuming sign, he doesn't think he would even realize it was a bar.

"Babs" was written in all capital letters on the vertical sign, followed by a martini glass underneath.

From the outside, once you notice it, it looks like a small dive bar. He likes that about it already.

Though he had no intentions of going to a bar, he's there, and he's too curious about the inside now to go somewhere else. He's sure they have some good food, he'll have a drink or two, and then he'll venture into town some more.

He walks inside and his eyes widen in awe at the quaint place before him. It isn't at all what he pictured based on the outside appearance, and he figures there's some built in lesson about not judging a book – or bar – by its cover somewhere in that.

There are two levels: a lower level with a bar, some strategically placed tables, and an upbeat atmosphere that mirrored the energy of the myriad of people currently occupying it. He looks to his right and notices the stairs, taking one step at a time until he reaches the top. The upper level is different – much quieter, darker lighting, and another fully stocked bar. There's an area further back in the corner with a few pool tables, currently in use by a few guys.

He breathes in, scrunching his nose when he's met with the all too familiar smell of beer, somewhat stale peanuts, and more beer.

Even so, he opts for the upper level, enjoying the relaxed feel more than the overcrowded craziness of the lower level, and takes a seat on one of the bar stools.

"I'll have a suburban," he tells the bartender and watches as he prepares it. He's older, in his forties probably, and he's wearing a button down rolled at the elbows. The man returns quickly, sliding the glass across the bar to him with a friendly, "here you go."

He thanks him with a nod and takes to his glass, swishing it around before downing a majority of its contents. The burn as it slides down his throat is welcomed as it momentarily serves as a fight against the exhaustion he didn't realize was still creeping in on him. It's been a tiring week; long days of book signings and travel, running on little to no sleep, and it seems as though it's finally taking its toll.

After shaking his head in an attempt to steer away any stray bouts of sudden sleep, he turns slightly on his stool to look around the space he's in. It's still fairly dark, the lighting casting shadows in different areas of the room. There's a significant difference in the number of people upstairs as opposed to that of the downstairs level, and he takes this chance to observe those around him. Most of the tables are occupied by groups of two or more people, almost all of them animatedly telling some kind of story, arms waving around in front of them.

The table to his left has four people sitting at it and he thinks they're probably students at the University of Michigan; they look young, and while he wishes his deduction was one of pure talent for observation, one of them is wearing a UofM sweatshirt. Two girls and two guys – two couples, he decides. If he's right, he has no idea, but he spends far too long creating back stories for all four of the young students before he realizes his drink is empty again, forcing him to stop and ask for another.

It's for the best. It's a fun game when he's alone, to guess what everyone's story is and what's happening in their lives, but it's less fun when it's about young college kids. Then it's probably slightly creepy, he realizes.

He scans the room once more, silently making up stories for a couple others, before his gaze stops on one woman. She's sitting by herself in the back corner of the room, her body hunched over the tabletop. The lighting and the way her hair falls over her face make it difficult for him to see her clearly, but he watches as she absentmindedly swirls the drink in her hand, otherwise unmoving, for at least five minutes. There's something there, a story, a reason she's sitting there alone looking pretty upset, and he can't help but wonder what it is.

The woman is a stranger, but there's something about her that's piqued his interest already. He feels the need to talk to her, if only to make sure that she's okay.

Before he knows what he's doing, his legs are carrying him across the room, stopping just in front of her table, opposite her. She doesn't notice his presence, doesn't budge from her position, her head still in her hand.

"Do you mind if I sit down?"

The woman startles, wide eyes darting up to his, and wow – she's beautiful. The closer he looks, though, the more he notices. Her eyes are rimmed red and bloodshot, dried tears staining her cheeks. Her hair is wet, falling just below her shoulders, and he figures that's thanks to the most recent stint of rain. He also takes notice of her clothes; they look as though they've seen better days, much like the body they're currently resting on. She's swimming in her oversized sweater and the jeans are baggy, as if they'll all but hang off of her slim frame when she stands.

Her head falls back down and she just shrugs, sniffles a bit in what he assumes is an attempt to hide the fact that she's been crying, but she doesn't give an answer. He knows he should turn around, take her noncommittal shrug as a no, but he sits down anyway, silently placing his glass on the table in front of him. The drink in front of the woman looks barely touched but he can smell the whiskey and wonders how many she's had before this.

She doesn't look at him as they sit in silence – it's not uncomfortable, per say, but it's not comfortable either. He doesn't know what to do, doesn't know if he should say something. He almost asks if she's alright, but he knows that's a stupid question; the tear soaked cheeks tell him the answer to that question.

"I'm Rick," he offers softly, unable to bear the silence any longer.

She looks up and hesitantly meets his eyes, and he does his best to stay focused; his first instinct is to go over to her side of the table and wrap her in a hug, let her cry or get whatever it is she needs to get out, but he doesn't.

They're strangers, and strangers don't do that.

He gathered that she was upset beforehand, given her posture and the split second of her face that he caught, but now, meeting her eyes for real, he's speechless. As clichéd as it may be, he believes that eyes are windows into the soul, a way to truly see a person. The hazel eyes looking back at him are cloudy, empty. She looks young, early twenties at most, but the story behind those eyes is one of sadness well beyond her years.

He sits quietly as she looks him over, unspoken questions evident on her face, and he realizes that she's probably sizing him up.

"Kate," is all she says, almost inaudible, so quietly he barely hears her.

He gives her a small nod, a comforting smile. "Kate," he repeats. "I like it."

She huffs and he swears he sees her roll her eyes.

"Listen," she rasps, her voice laced with alcohol. "I'm really not looking for a one night stand or whatever it is you think that this-" She gestures between the two of them as she continues, "would turn into, so-"

Rick's eyes widen and he raises his hands. "What- no- that's not- _I'm not_-" he stutters, pausing to take a breath before he starts again. "I didn't come over here to get you into bed. Why would you think that?"

"That's what they all come over for," he hears her mumble to herself, her eyes cast down in her lap, and his heart breaks.

She shakes her head and sighs, training her eyes back on him. "Then why did you come over here?" she asks, and he can't tell if the tone of her voice is exasperation or exhaustion.

He shrugs, suddenly nervous. "Honestly?" he starts, watches as she raises her brows in response and he can practically hear the _yeah, that'd be nice_. "You look awful." She winces, her brows creased in what looks like involuntary hurt, and he immediately regrets it. For a writer, he really should have worded that better. "No, no, that's not what I meant. You just looked so upset, so sad, and I couldn't stop myself from coming over. I know if I was as down as you seem right now, I'd like to think that maybe someone would come talk to me, too."

She looks him over and meets his gaze again, expecting to see false sincerity, but she's met with honest eyes and what seems like a genuine reply instead.

Her eyes are hazy as she turns absently towards the bar and he wonders what she's thinking, tries to read her. He sees a number of emotions play across her face, each one gone as quickly as the last, so fast that he can't pinpoint any of them.

"I don't need your pity," she says bitterly, biting her bottom lip between her teeth, and then she's mumbling, "I have to go," with what looks like fresh tears making their way to the surface.

He shakes his head, his heart falling in his chest, his eyes watching her as she shifts in her seat. He wants to tell her that this isn't pity, wants to apologize if he made it seem that way. Before he can say any of the things flying around in his mind she's out of her chair, shrugging a bag onto her shoulder and turning her back to him.

"Kate!" he calls, his voice coming back to him, but she's already gone. He can't do anything but stand and watch as she practically runs out of the bar; he wants to run after her, make her understand that he didn't mean to upset her, but he doesn't.

She's too fast and he's too stunned to move.

He's still mulling over what just happened when his phone rings, breaking him out of a daze. He groans when he sees Gina's name on his phone but picks up anyway, knowing it'll just be worse if he ignores her.

"Gina, to what do I owe this pleasure," he lies through his teeth. She's never a pleasure, almost always a pain.

He runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. "I'm at a local bar, I needed to get out." He holds the phone away from his ear as she tells him he shouldn't have left the hotel, that something could've happened if some too-rowdy fans had cornered him and no one knew where he went, but he just shakes his head and pretends he's listening.

He knows that deep down, somewhere, she's looking out for his best interest, probably, but it's exhausting. He doesn't say that, though, just nods and goes with it if only to avoid any arguments.

"Alright, okay," he sighs. "I'll be back at the hotel in fifteen." He doesn't say goodbye before he hangs up, just shoves the phone in his pocket.

The cool bite to the air hits him as he exits the building and he curls deeper into his jacket. His shoulders hike up to his chin and he brings his hands up, breathing on them before rubbing them together for warmth.

He tries to occupy himself, tries to take in the sights of the tiny area he's passing by, but his mind is plagued by the woman from the bar for the entire walk back to the hotel.

She's a mystery.

There's a story there. It's a painful one, he can tell; one someone her age shouldn't have to be burdened by.

Not much was given away during their brief encounter, but he has a name.

Kate.

The girl with the sad eyes is Kate, and he's determined to find her again.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you guys so much for the feedback so far! I wasn't expecting that many follows at all, so that was really nice to see! I hope you like this chapter as well, and again, I'd really love to hear what you guys think :)

(Also, just as a little side note: Classes have started up again so I'm not sure how much free time I'll have aside from probably weekends, but I am going to do my very best to update at least once a week!)

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><p>He finishes one book signing in the morning and has a second one in the afternoon, very shortly after the first. Two signings back to back was Gina's idea, even though he suggested having a few hours in between so he could regroup.<p>

_You'll be fine, Ricky_, she told him, despite his increasing exhaustion, and he wonders if she _wants_ him to collapse. He almost tried to talk her out of it, but he wasn't in the mood for what would likely become World War Gina, so he figured he'd just roll with it. He puts on the biggest smile he can, as he always does, and ignores the glares he gets from Gina every time he lets on that he's even the least bit tired.

_She's_ the one that scheduled these signings so closes together, not him. He can't help it if he yawns; he doesn't show any less enthusiasm than normal with those lined up to meet him, and that's the most important part to him anyway.

He may be tired, may have other things – or people – on his mind, but he'll never let that hinder his meetings with the fans. They wait hours in queue lines to get their books signed, _his_ books, and he wants all of them to leave happy, wants all of them to have the best experience possible. If that means he has to plaster a smile on his face and power through his own issues for a few hours, that's exactly what he'll do.

He didn't get much sleep last night, thoughts and questions about the woman from the bar haunting him. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her sad hazel ones staring back at him; it amazes him what an impact she's made on him in such a short period of time, and he doesn't know what it is, but there's just _something_ about her.

He wants to get to know her more, make her smile, keep those tears out of her eyes.

She's guarded, he's sensed that much, but he hopes he'll be able to ease her out of her shell; maybe she'll let him help her, or at least talk to him.

He's brought back to reality when the line in front of him continues to move, and he realizes they're slowly making their way towards the end of what seems like a sea of people. He's been at this signing for over an hour – not counting the first one shortly beforehand – and he knows he's looking at another hour, at least. He doesn't mind though; compared to previous signings, some lasting almost four hours (he likes to sign for everyone that takes the time to show up, if at all possible), this is nothing.

"Hi, what's your name, sweetheart?" he asks the young girl now standing in front of him, his book clutched in her arms.

He can see that she's nervous, but she's trying to hide it. "Andi," she manages after a few seconds.

"Well, Andi," he says with a smile as he begins to sign her book. "Thank you for coming today! Your support means so much to me, and I'm glad you're enjoying the book."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Castle!" He hands the book back to her, watches as she holds it to her chest and grabs her mother, leading them out of the bookstore.

That's how the remainder of the signing goes; he smiles and thanks them for coming, for buying his book, and watches as they all leave with smiles on their own faces. It definitely makes the long hours and tiring nights worth it.

When it's over and everyone's left the store, Gina pulls him off to the side.

"Good job, Ricky," she grins. "I could barely tell you were exhausted. _See_, I told you it'd be fine."

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, smiles instead. "You know me, I'm a performer," he grins back. He doesn't tell her that he still would have rathered having the time in between; he's just glad she apparently didn't notice any of the lapses in energy. If he's learned anything from his mother, it's how to put on a good performance.

Gina leaves, saying she's going to a meeting with a group of other publicists. She tells him she'll talk to him later and to avoid getting into trouble. _Make my job easier, Rick_.

He looks around the bookstore for the first time without a mass of people crowding it, and he likes it. It's a nice size – rows of shelves lining the walls, warm colors painting the room, and an overall cozy atmosphere.

"Can I help?" he asks as he walks up to one of the men who seems to be struggling while taking apart a table.

The man looks shocked by his offer but nods. "Yeah, actually, that'd be great. Thanks."

Rick grabs the opposite end of the table, unscrewing a couple bolts. He's beginning to realize why the guy was having a hard time with this; the screws are more like dead bolts and they're refusing to be taken out. It takes him ten minutes of wiggling and playing with the first one just to get it out. He figures out a system after that, taking out the rest somewhat easily, piling them onto a chair behind him. They fold the table up and put it to the side, leaning it up against one of the shelves.

There are three other tables and the guy tells him that he's got it, but Rick insists on helping. They each take a table and then finish the last one off together, leaning the remaining three next to the first one.

"Thanks, man," the guy says as he throws his tools down at his side. "I appreciate it."

Rick shrugs. "Not a problem…"

"Ben," the guy says, holding out a hand for Rick to shake.

"Ben. Glad I could help," he nods. "I should get going, but I'll see you around."

He hears Ben say something to one of the other workers about how he's "actually not an ass." He shakes his head with a small laugh. He knows how he's portrayed in the media, knows that they make him out to be a playboy, a jackass. He's not, really, and he's more than happy to change a few perceptions of him when he can. The guy was struggling and he had nothing to do, why wouldn't he help?

It doesn't make sense to him, but then again, none of it ever does.

Now that he's done at the signing he has the rest of the day to himself, and he figures he should probably go back to the hotel, get some rest, and maybe order some room service. Deep down, though, he knows that's not what he's going to be doing.

* * *

><p>He finds himself sitting at the bar again, the wooden top chilled beneath his fingertips from the air.<p>

"A suburban, sir?" the bartender asks, a knowing smirk on his face.

He's come to Babs once or twice since his initial run in with it and he hasn't even realized he's gotten the same thing each time, but apparently it was enough for the bartender – whose name is Antonio, he's learned – to remember what he's going to get.

Rick laughs, shaking his head. "Yeah, Antonio, thanks. Am I really that obvious?"

Antonio nods back as he grabs a glass to make his drink. "Yeah, a bit," he confirms. "And you can call me Tony."

He taps his fingers in front of him and glances around the bar. It's less crowed than it was the other night, but he still doesn't take a seat at one of the tables. It's only him, and he doesn't want to take up an entire table by himself.

He's not about to be _that guy_.

"So, you new around here?" Tony asks, causing Rick to swivel around on his stool to look at him. "Haven't seen you around before the other day."

"Kind of," he nods. "I'm here for work."

"You a corporate lawyer or something?"

Rick raises his eyebrows. "Do I look like a lawyer?"

Tony shrugs. "It's the suit," he decides, pointing to Rick's outfit. It's not a full on suit, but he's wearing a nice button down shirt, a tie, and a blazer. "Gives you a more regal look, so yeah, like a lawyer or something."

He makes a noise of consideration before letting out a small laugh. "I'll take that as a good thing, but no, not a lawyer," he admits. "I'm here for a book tour, actually."

He speaks quietly; while he doubts the people that frequent Babs are huge Derrick Storm fans, he doesn't want to take the chance of someone noticing him and potentially causing a problem.

Tony's eyes widen with interest, his head bobbing in approval. "Book tour, huh? So you're a writer?"

"On my better days," Rick jokes. "I was stuck in my hotel the other day but I had to get out. Somehow I ended up here." He explains how he didn't mean to find the place, how it was a complete accident.

"Yeah, it's our own little hidden gem here in Ann Arbor," Tony comments, sliding a now full glass of whiskey over to Rick. "We get mostly regulars, so that's how I figured you probably weren't from around here."

"Ah, so I wasn't blending in as well as I thought, huh?"

Tony shakes his head. "Not quite. But I've seen worse, don't worry," he tells him. "Are you here for much longer?"

"I have two more signings here, a few in Canton and Detroit," he replies, counting off the dates on his fingers. "And then I go back to New York to finish off the tour."

"You must be a big shot then," Tony says, his brows raised. "Sorry I haven't read any of your stuff, this place keeps me pretty busy. I'm sure it's somethin' though."

Rick waves him off. "Don't sweat it. I just got lucky with a few popular books, that's all."

He honestly believes that, too. He knows he's a talented writer, of course, but he also knows that there are tons of other talented writers that never got a break, never got a publisher, never got the recognition they deserve. He knows how lucky he is that these opportunities have presented themselves to him, and he doesn't take that for granted.

A few minutes of silence pass, Rick diving into his whiskey and Tony going back to tend to some other customers. Rick's eyes widen as a light bulb goes off in his brain, backpedaling to something Tony had said.

"Hey, Tony," he calls the man over. "You said most of the people in here are regulars?"

Tony nods.

"Do you know a girl, Kate?"

He watches as Tony thinks it over, wringing his hands in a towel before slinging it over his shoulder. His brow creases and Rick can feel his body filling with anticipation. It's a few minutes before Tony looks back at him with a small, sad smile and nods.

"Yeah, I know her," he says. "She's one of our regulars."

"What do you know about her?" he asks, hoping he isn't overstepping. He knows he probably shouldn't be asking near strangers for information about her – hell, _she's_ a stranger to him – but he can't help himself.

If Tony knows something, and he's willing to tell him, at least then he'll have _something_ to go off of other than a name.

"Not too much, actually," Tony sighs, propping himself up on the bar with his elbows. "She's been coming here for a little over a year maybe. She's never been the poster child for happiness, but she was in some pretty rough shape back then."

"How so?" He told himself he wasn't going to ask too many more questions, if any, but he's curious.

Tony comes in closer so he doesn't have to speak as loudly for Rick to hear him. "She was always pretty beaten up," he says, rubbing at his shoulder with his hand, rolling it back. "She'd order more drinks than she could handle and I'd watch as she disappeared into them. I'd eventually cut her off, of course, but she was a piece of work. She never made a scene, but she knew how to charm her way into a few more drinks even after I'd cut her off."

Ricks eyes widen, taking in everything that he's just been told. He wonders what made her wander into this bar to drink herself into oblivion, wonders what happened once she left the confines of these walls, significantly more drunk than she'd been before she entered.

"You know her?" Tony asks, turning the questions on him.

Rick shakes his head. "No, no. I met her the other night, but she ran off pretty quickly. All I got was a name. Wondered what her story was," he shrugs, picking up the whiskey to his right.

"I'm not sure what her story is," the older man says, dipping down so his voice is just above a whisper. "But whatever brought her in here like that, it wasn't pretty."

Tony gives him a look before walking away to make more drinks.

"Yeah," Rick whispers, his eyes moving down to the drink in his hand. He picks it up and swishes it around before placing it back on the bar.

He has more answers than he had before, but he also has more questions now too.

Was she from Michigan? What happened to her?

He sighs, knowing there's a possibility he'll never get the answers to these questions. All he has, still, is a first name. No way to know who she is or if she'll even come back to the bar. She's a regular, sure, but there's no telling if she'll return before he has to leave.

The clock on his phone tells him it's late; he knows he should leave and get some much needed sleep, but he can't bring himself to go back yet. Instead, he glances around the bar and notices a group of guys playing pool in the far corner. Mother keeps telling him he needs to work on his game, that he's slipping, but he likes to think he's good enough as it is.

Maybe it's time to find out who's right.

"Hey, guys," he greets casually as he walks up to the pool table they're occupying. "Mind if I join?"

The group of five all turn their attention to him, each of the men taking turns sizing him up. They look at each other and then back to him, and he briefly wonders if he's walked into some kind of gang game.

"Yeah, sure," one of the guys says, finally, and extends his hand. "I'm Charlie."

Rick nods as he shakes his hand and listens to Charlie rattle off the names of the rest of the group. "That's Scott, Giovanni, Dave, and Nikita."

"I'm Rick," he introduces himself, nodding to the other men as well. "You guys from around here?"

Dave laughs. "How else would we have found this place? It's our own little dive bar, only locals know it," he nudges Giovanni's shoulder. "We had to show him around when he first got here, couldn't find it to save his life."

"It's not my fault it's practically a hole in the wall," Giovanni shoots back, finishing off the shot in his hand. He's not wrong - it's quite literally almost a hole in the wall. "Nikita couldn't find it either."

Charlie shakes his head. "Nikita's from _Russia_, Gio. Shit's different there or something, he gets a pass this time."

"Russia, wow," Rick says, his eyes bulging. "What brings you here? Wait," he cuts himself off, his voice lowering. "Are you in the Russian mob or something?"

Nikita cocks his head and Rick immediately backpedals. "I'm sorry- I didn't mean- You're not-"

"It's okay," Nikita says, putting him out of his misery and laughing as Rick regulates his breathing again. He's glad he wasn't right about the mob; he probably wouldn't have made it out of this little encounter. "No mob, sorry. I'm in training."

"Training?"

"He's a figure skater," Scott chimes in, walking behind all of them to set the balls on the table.

Nikita rubs at his temples. "Ice dance," he groans. "There's a difference."

"You still gotta wear tights, bro."

"And who's in the locker room with the beautiful women?" he counters, and by the raise in his brow and the silence of the others, Rick knows Nikita's won whatever debate was just going on.

Scott just shrugs, suddenly showing a disinterest in the conversation.

"Anyway," Gio breaks in, points to the stack of pool cues behind him with a nod to Rick. "Where you from, Rick?"

"Lower Manhattan," he says as he walks around the table to grab a pool cue and some billiard chalk. "SoHo."

Gio nods. "Brooklyn."

Rick's about to say something when Charlie cuts in, rubbing his hands together. "Alright, if we're all done trading hair tips, let's play," he says, a grin on his face. "Loser buys a round of drinks."

Everyone agrees to the terms and they start the game. It goes on for a couple of hours; Rick loses the first game and has to buy drinks, followed by Dave and Scott, adding on two more rounds of shots for everyone. Rick's game improved throughout the night, but as much as he hates to admit it, his mother's right – his game _could_ use some work. They all called it quits after a while; a few of them say they need to be up early for work and Nikita has to be up at an ungodly hour to work on his training at the rink. He tells Rick that he should stop by some time, get on the ice, and Rick laughs.

He imagines himself on the ice, all wobbly legs and no coordination.

He promises himself he'll go back to the hotel after one more drink, so he strides back over to the bar and takes a seat in his earlier seat.

"Tony, my good man," he greets the man as he walks over. "Shot of fireball please?"

The man nods, coming back quickly with a shot glass, filling it with his preferred drink.

"I see you met the crew over there," he says, and Rick brings his head up. _The crew_. The group of guys had a name. Nice.

"Yeah, they kicked my ass in pool."

Tony laughs as he hands over the shot glass. "I've seen them do that to many people, you're not the first."

Rick swallows the shot before bringing his attention back to Tony. "So is Nikita really a figure skater?"

"Ice dancer," he corrects him. "He'll make the distinction every time."

"Interesting," Rick hums. He didn't doubt them when they told him, but it wasn't a profession that would've been one of his guesses.

It's not until he's downed his second shot – he knows he said one, but he tells himself he needs one (or maybe two) for the road – that he realizes he's gone the past few hours without thinking of Kate.

It's for the best, he figures.

He's come to terms with the very real possibility that he might not see her again. He's not happy about it, so maybe he hasn't _completely_ come to terms with it, but even he knows it doesn't look promising.

He wraps his fingers around one last shot and hopes that wherever she is, she looks at least a little bit happier than she did the other night.

"To the mysterious Kate," he says quietly, bringing the glass to his lips. He lets the liquid burn his throat before shaking his head, leaving a tip on the counter for Tony, and making his way out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

I really appreciate all of the feedback from you guys, it means more than you know! Please continue to let me know what you think - thoughts, questions, concerns, etc., are all welcome! I hope you enjoy this chapter as well!

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><p>Kate runs a hand through her disheveled hair, wincing slightly when a finger gets caught in a particularly tangled knot. She should do something with her hair, she knows, and she will. Soon. She just doesn't have the energy to work with it right now, so she gets as many knots out as she can with her fingers and hopes for the best as she scrunches it.<p>

A groan escapes her throat when she turns towards the mirror; the reflection looking back at her is the last thing she wants to see. Dark circles have made a home underneath her eyes and look as though they're there to stay, so she packs on some concealer and prays that nobody will notice. When people notice, they ask questions, and when they ask questions, she's forced to conjure up a story with very little prep time.

She's not in the mood to make up any stories, and she really doesn't feel like dealing with those questions.

"What happened to you," she mumbles to the mirror image of herself, crossing her arm to rub at a protruding collarbone. There's a bruise residing on the bone, which she mentally adds to the list of bruises whose origins she's unaware of.

The girl looking back at her isn't her, isn't the Kate she knows - but then again, she doesn't really know who that is anymore. She's not the same person she was a few years ago, back before everything she knew came crashing down around her, shattering her seemingly perfect life into a million pieces. Too much has changed, too much has happened, and she's not sure she'll ever be able to make her way back to that person.

That Kate may as well be dead.

There's always that part of her that wishes she could go back home, go back to how things used to be, but she knows that's nothing but wishful thinking on her part. She often closes her eyes and counts to three, hoping beyond hope that the events of the past few years have been nothing but sick nightmares.

But they're not.

She opens her eyes and she's back in this apartment, staring at the same pale off-white walls with a severe lack of decorations adorning them. There are a few photos here and there, sitting upon one of her far dressers, but not much more than that.

This is her home now, and she knows she should make it feel more like a home. But she can't bring herself to, can't make herself put up happy decorations when the atmosphere inside the space is anything but.

She's lost weight again and if it wasn't for her vast collection of over-sized sweaters, she's positive someone would have said something by now. It's not on purpose – her appetite is few and far between these days and she doesn't force herself to eat, even when she knows she should.

To say the past three or so years were rough would be an understatement, but she's getting better.

She _thought_ she was getting better.

She got away, she stopped lingering in the streets, stopped hanging out with people she should've never been involved with in the first place, and she's managed to clean herself up. There are still nights she wants to get back into it all, knowing there's a chance it'll numb the pain as it has so blissfully in the past, but she doesn't let herself. She's come too far to throw all of it away now; she has to do this for herself, for her father, for everyone who took a chance on her when she was in that place. She has to do it for her.

But _god_, it's hard.

_It's a work in progress_, she tells herself. She knows it's true – nothing fixes itself overnight.

She knows it takes time, but she doesn't know how much longer she can do this. Every time she thinks she's okay, thinks she has everything under control, she loses it again. The nightmares creep in, paralyzing her late at night, taking away her sleep. Images of the alley float around in her mind like a fragmented motion picture film - images of the body, the blood. She'll blink to kick them away but they're just replaced with flashes of the bottles, the hospital rooms, the needles, the men.

Some of them are worse than others – a decent amount of them will run their course, finish without being interrupted by a rousing Kate. They're unpleasant, sure, but not unmanageable. Others - the ones that are far more horrible and one hundred percent unwanted - jolt her awake mid-nightmare, body tangled in her sheets and glistening with sweat, heartbeat erratic.

Those are the nightmares that keep her from a peaceful sleep.

When she pushes them away, finally, she knows it's only a matter of time before they return. So she doesn't sleep, doesn't risk it.

Those are the nights she wants to throw herself back onto the streets, get something to make her forget. But instead, she ends up at Babs, just like she has for almost two years now.

It helps – for a little while, at least. She's not in the same shape she was back then, but the bottle is more inviting than the memories. That much she's learned.

She's told no one what happened; not even Tony, the bartender whose sweet personality reminds her so much of that part of her father.

She keeps it to herself, a secret past she guards with a lock and key. A secret past that worms its way back into her present, suffocates her just when she thinks she's okay again. She thinks she should know how to handle it by now, but she doesn't.

The anniversary is by far the worst. It's the one day a year she doesn't hide the pain, doesn't stop the tears from falling onto her cheeks at the bar.

It's also the one day none other than Richard Castle decided to sit down with her.

It took her a while to recognize him when he approached her; she's used to ignoring men who come up to her, knowing all too well what they're usually looking for – past experiences have proved that much to her – so she didn't bother paying much attention to him. She's stopped accepting those offers and now she doesn't respond when they ask; they get annoyed but they back off eventually.

When she looked up and finally saw his face, she knew that she recognized him from somewhere but it was a few minutes before she realized – she's seen his face on the back of her mother's favorite books. She loved his first novel, _In a Hail of Bullets_, and she herself quickly followed suit.

_You'll love him, Kate_, her mother had told her, and she was right.

Justice is served in his books; the good guys come out on top, there's closure for the victims or their families, and that's something she needed, still needs. To know that good can still conquer evil.

She practically memorized the photos on the backs of his novels, his smile; so much so she's surprised it took that long to notice. She schooled her features quickly, not wanting him to read any recognition on her face.

She didn't know why he was sitting across from her, but she wasn't about to throw all her cards on the table just because he asked if she was okay.

She's sure he was just trying to get lucky; saw an upset girl and in turn saw an easy target. But then he looked so concerned and she didn't know what to do. His stare bore into her and she knew immediately that he was trying to read her, silently trying to fix her, and she couldn't take it. She wanted to see a fakeness, wanted to see deceit, but when she looked into his eyes, those dumb, sparkling blue eyes, all she saw was honesty.

It terrified her, still terrifies her now thinking about it.

It's been so long since she's had someone look at her like that, like they genuinely want to console her, help her, that she freaked out. She has a lot of baggage; too much to carry all alone, but too much to burden anyone else with. Especially _Richard Castle_ of all people.

She picked up her bag from beside her, mumbled something about not needing his pity – she's not sure if she thinks it was actually pity, really, but she needed to get out of there – and did what she does best.

She ran.

She can still see the look on his face when she got up and left, a mixture of confusion and hurt – probably for her. For a split second it almost made her regret leaving, almost made her sit back down, but she didn't.

Couldn't.

She shakes her head, trying her best to forget that encounter ever happened. It doesn't matter what his true intentions were, doesn't matter whether she was right or not.

She's never going to see him again.

"I need a drink," she sighs to herself. She rubs at her eyes to fix the eyeliner, hoping any that smudged underneath looks more presentable now.

It's a smoky eye look, she decides.

She steps back to the mirror, bringing her mouth up into a crooked smile. "So, Kate, what do you say about a White Russian?" she asks the reflection, staring at it as if she expects a response.

Her laughter startles her, the sound foreign to her own ears, but she just shakes her head again.

She has to throw on a different pair of jeans – she only has a few pairs that still fit her and the ones she's currently wearing were slept in, unintentionally – and decides to shrug on a loose jacket while she's at her closet.

She grabs her wallet from her dresser, makes sure she has her keys, and then she's out the door again.

* * *

><p>A group of guys nod to her as she enters the lower level of Babs and she nods back politely. They're all regulars and they know her name because-<p>

Oh. She's kind of a regular now too, she realizes.

The stairs are on her right and she makes her way up, all too ready to plop herself down in one her usual tables. She can practically feel the sting of the alcohol sliding down her throat, numbing her, and she begins taking two steps at a time.

She just needs to forget for a while, needs to relax.

She reaches the top of the stairs and stops dead in her tracks, feeling all the air leave her lungs. Her chest constricts and she can feel her heart pounding, the fight or flight response quickly kicking in. It's telling her to run, to get out of there, go back to her apartment and finish off one of her bottles of vodka instead, but her feet don't move.

They suddenly seem to be glued to the floor and her eyes are glued to the man occupying one of the stools, hands wrapped around a drink. He's sitting there, elbows propped on the bar, now polishing off whatever it is in his glass.

Richard Castle.

The man she blew off the other day, whose face looked like a kicked puppy when he saw her teary, sunken eyes.

The man whose books got her through the roughest patches of her life, if only for a while.

The man she had absolutely no intentions of ever seeing again.

And yet there he is, sitting just a few feet away from her trembling body. His back is to her, _thank god_, so he can't see her standing there, resembling what she can only imagine as a deer in the headlights. A very panicked, very confused deer that's about to be mowed down by a sixteen wheeler.

She makes herself take a few long, calming breaths in an attempt to regulate her breathing. Her heart's still threatening to burst out of her chest but she closes her eyes and just _breathes_, and it slowly starts returning to normal.

She'd be lying to herself if she said she wasn't wondering what he was going to say the other night, what he would've done had she not run away so quickly. Were his intentions as pure as his eyes made them out to be or was it a trick, a charade perfected from many years of use?

She doesn't know the answer to that question, but she wants to. She hates that she wants to know, hates that there's something inside her telling her to go sit down next to him.

With one last deep breath she nods to herself, trying to regain something that resembles confidence, and completely disregards the part of her telling her to get out while she still can.

She takes a few slow strides over to the bar, carefully swinging herself over the stool, taking a seat just to the left of the man in question. He doesn't register her presence right away and she takes this opportunity to really look at him – something she didn't get a chance to do before, though that's her own fault.

His eyes are closed and his brows are creased in what looks to be thought, his eyelids fluttering every couple seconds. There's stubble on his face and she'll admit that it makes him more attractive; his cheekbones stand out, showing off his jawline. His hair is tousled but it doesn't look messy, which is something she wishes she could say about her own hair.

She grabs the frayed ends of her hair in response, suddenly more self-conscious about its messy state. Maybe taking the extra few minutes to deal with it earlier would've been a better choice on her part.

She's about to get up and leave, having lost her nerve to sit there any longer, when she sees his eyes open. He seems to realize someone's taken the seat next to him and she freezes, knowing what's about to happen.

He turns, a smile on his face as though he's about to politely greet whoever it is seated next to him. His smile drops into a shocked "o" when he sees who it is, his eyes wide. She watches as his mouth closes and his face goes from shocked to confused, and then to a combination of the two.

_It's now or never_, she thinks. There's really no choice. Either she talks, or she runs out - for a second time. It's the preferable option, the option every fiber of her being is telling her to choose, but she can't.

Before she can turn her thoughts into formulated sentences, he speaks, his voice breathy, laced with concern and hesitation.

"Kate."


	4. Chapter 4

I don't know exactly how to express my gratitude for all of your positive words for this story. Your reviews/follows/favorites all make my day, so thank you! I look forward to hearing what you all think about this chapter as well :)

And I'm sorry it's taken so long to reply to all of your reviews, I'm going to try and get better at replying in a more timely manner!

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><p>He sits next to her in silence, trying his damnedest not to stare too long. He doesn't want to scare her off again, but he's not sure how to act now. She ran off so quickly last time without a reason – that he knows of, anyway – and without any hint as to what he'd said or done to upset her.<p>

He's not about to let that happen again, so he's waiting her out this time.

She's wringing her hands together in her lap, her eyes looking anywhere but his own, and he watches as she bites at her bottom lip, chews on it for a few seconds before running her tongue along the abused area.

He wonders if she's going to talk at all, and he's not sure if he can hold out any longer. It's not in his nature to stay quiet for long; he's always the first one to speak when there's a silence, if only to lighten the mood.

Even as a child he would be the first one to blurt something out, without thinking, just to get conversation going or to crack a joke. Except now doesn't seem like the time for jokes.

"Kate," he says, quietly. He doesn't want to risk startling her. "I didn't think I'd see you again."

She gives him a small smile, and he knows it's forced, probably for his own benefit. He's practically the king of forced smiles; press conferences with dozens of overzealous reporters will have anyone a master in the art of fake smiles in no time.

"Listen, Kate, I'm so sorry," he rushes out, his voice still low but with more power behind it. "I didn't mean to offend you or upset you or whatever it is that I did to make you run off like that."

She looks at him, her expression considerably more open than he's seen it before. He takes that as a good sign and decides to continue. "I was just trying to see if you were okay, honest. I don't like seeing people upset and I thought maybe if I could cheer you up or make you smile- I just- I don't know. I'm sorry."

He stops, taking a breath finally. He doesn't realize that he's been staring off into space the entire time he was talking, unable to look at her, scared of what her reaction was going to be. With a sigh, he makes himself face her again.

"Don't apologize," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

"What?"

She shakes her head. "It wasn't you."

His brows raise and he lets out a low laugh. "Are you really using the 'it's not you, it's me' line right now?"

She grins at that, bowing her head in front of her. It's not a full smile, but it's something, and he'll take what he can get.

"It really is me," she tells him, and the grin is gone instantly. Her face is back to the forlorn look he's seen on her once before.

He cocks his head. "I don't understand."

"This was a bad idea," she mumbles to herself, slowly moving to get up off of the stool. "I'm sorry."

"Kate, wait," he says a little too loud, watching as she stops in her movements and looks at him. "Please don't leave."

She doesn't sit back down but she doesn't move to walk away either. "Why?"

"Because I-" he starts, but then he stops, taking a breath. "Because I thought we could talk."

She scoffs as if that's the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard. "Why would you want to talk to me?" she asks. She gives him a look that's both challenging and pleading, almost like she doesn't think he actually wants to talk to her, but wants desperately to believe it.

"Who wouldn't want to talk to you? You're beautiful." She huffs. "And you look like you could use someone to talk to."

She looks up with a shake of her head, almost rolling her eyes but not quite, and her tongue catches between her teeth. "Bullshit."

"Kate," he says more seriously, his eyes trained on hers. "You want to know why I want to talk to you?"

"Yeah, I do."

He nods and takes a breath. He shouldn't tell her, realizes that it's probably too much and he shouldn't have even been thinking about her so much in the first place, but she wants the truth.

So he'll give her the truth.

"You intrigue me, Kate," he starts, bringing his hand up to rub at his neck. "When I walked up to you the other day, I really did just want to see if you were okay. You looked so upset, more upset than I think I've ever seen someone. And then I really saw you. Yes, you are beautiful-" She turns her head at that, lowering it just slightly. "-but I saw something there that I couldn't get out of my head. The sadness in your eyes, the tears that stained your cheeks, the quivering of your lip when you said you didn't want my pity."

She brings her eyes back to his. "I couldn't forget your face, and I couldn't let myself forget what I saw in your eyes. _That's_ why I want to talk to you."

He takes a breath and leans back on his stool, resting his arms on the top of the bar. She doesn't say anything at first, but he sees her slowly move back towards her stool as she takes her seat once again.

"You're wasting your time," she whispers.

He doesn't understand how she doesn't think she's worth talking to. She's barely more than a _stranger_ to him and he can already see that there is a depth to her, multiple layers that he thinks anyone would be lucky to explore.

"I don't think I am," he says, cutting her off when she starts to object. "But even if I were, it's my time to waste." He grins, raising his eyebrows, almost challenging her to argue with his own logic.

She shakes her head, her shoulders hiking up to her neck as she rolls them back. He can practically see the wheels turning in her head, her brain wrapping itself around what he's just told her.

"It won't hurt to talk, Kate," he tells her, hesitantly reaching out his hand to place it on top of her wrist. She stiffens and he retracts the hand, worried that he's stepped over some kind of boundary with the touch, but she gives him a small, almost imperceptible nod.

It's not a lot, but it's something.

He's not trying to push her into talking to him. If she's uncomfortable with him at all, he'll walk away – that's the opposite of what he's trying to do. But he can see that she's troubled, in one way or another, and she looks like she could use someone to talk to, or just someone to listen.

She sighs, running a hand through her hair, before turning on her chair to face him. "What do you want to talk about?"

His eyes widen just a bit and he can feel the close mouthed smile forming on his face.

_She's willing to talk to him_.

She's tough, and he figures this is probably a big thing for her. He sees her tensed shoulders, her darting gaze, and he knows this is out of her comfort zone, knows it's probably not something she normally does.

He won't take that for granted.

"Have you eaten?"

Her brows scrunch in the same confusion that's now displayed on her face. "What?"

"Have you eaten?" he repeats.

"I-" she starts, opens her mouth to spew out the same rehearsed answer she always gives when she's asked this question – _I ate earlier_ – but she stops herself this time. "No."

He doesn't ask questions, but he can't help but wonder. It's fairly late in the day to not have eaten, but he knows not to jump to conclusions in these kinds of situations. Instead, he takes it as a win that she's answering truthfully.

Rick claps before rubbing his hands together, his body getting up from the seat. "Great! Do you like Italian food? I saw a nice little restau-"

"What?" she asks again, cutting him off. "I thought you wanted to talk."

He nods. "I do. But I haven't eaten, you haven't eaten, and while I'm sure Tony could whip up something delicious for us here, I think something other than bar food would be nice."

She looks at him hesitantly and he can see the questions playing behind her eyes.

"I don't know," she says, biting at her bottom lip once again. He's noticed that to be one of her nervous habits.

Sensing her uncertainty, he takes a step closer; he's still respecting her personal space, but he's just close enough so she can feel the warmth radiating off of him.

"It's just food, I promise," he assures her with a comforting smile. "It'll be nicer to talk over some food than over some stale peanuts," he laughs.

Her lips are still straight but he swears he sees the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth and runs with it.

"If you'd feel more comfortable, you can pick the place," he suggests, watching her as she looks at him, seemingly surprised by the offer. "I'm up for anything. Except escargot. I tried it once and it was _not_ pretty, trust me."

She lets out a small laugh and gives him the slightest of nods. "I like Italian," she confirms, and he knows that's also her way of saying yes to going with him.

He grabs the coat that's slung over his arm and puts it on as he waits for her to get up and put on her own jacket. It's a nice navy peacoat, one from a few years ago if he remembers his mother's obsession with a similar one correctly, and he admires how nice it looks on her. She's tiny, but the coat gives her the illusion that she has more curves.

She's stunning either way, he thinks quietly to himself as he moves aside to let her out the door first.

* * *

><p>The restaurant is only a block away from the bar and they make it there in less than ten minutes. The walk was filled with a slightly awkward, yet companionable silence for the most part. Rick asked a few questions about the sights they passed, Kate giving him quiet, but somewhat detailed answers.<p>

Inside the restaurant has a homey feel to it – it's filled with wooden paneling, tables, and chairs. There are candles lit on the shelve-like edges that lined the room as well as by the windows.

It's much more casual than he originally thought and he's grateful for that; he's not dressed down, exactly, but he's by no means dressed for a more upscale place. Kate isn't either, and he would've hated making her feel uncomfortable about being under dressed.

"Have you been here before?" he asks once they're seated at a table near one of the corners of the room.

She shakes her head. "No. I've passed by a few times but never stopped."

There's a silence between the two of them for a few minutes, both of them glancing at the other occasionally. When the waitress comes by and asks for their orders they're both ready, having skimmed the menu for a few minutes beforehand. Rick orders chicken marsala, something he usually gets when he's out with his mother as well, and Kate orders chicken parm.

"So." The waitress is no longer in earshot and he takes this opportunity to ask her some questions. They are there to talk, after all. "Are you from here? Michigan, I mean."

She plays with the ring on her left middle finger, spinning it in circles as she takes a deep breath. It doesn't go unnoticed by Rick, and he wonders if that was the wrong thing to ask. He figured it would be a light, simple question to start off with, but judging by her body language he realizes he was mistaken.

"No," she whispers.

He's too curious to listen to the part of him advising against pushing further. "Can I ask where you're from?"

She looks around, as if to gauge how many people are within hearing distance of them. The place isn't empty but it isn't crowded either. There are a few tables next to them, but the one closest to theirs isn't currently occupied.

With a sigh she turns back to him. "New York. I'm from New York."

"So am I," he tells her, only a bit surprised that she's also from New York. "SoHo."

When she only replies with a nod, he takes that as a hint she's not going to tell him where exactly she's from. But New York is a start and he wonders why she's in Michigan now.

"Manhattan," she says a few seconds later.

He looks at her. "I didn't ask."

"Yeah, well, you were not asking very loudly, Castle," she replies, narrowing him with a glare.

"I'm sorry- wait, Castle? So you know who I am," he grins, watching as a blush rises to her cheeks. "So you're a fan?"

"No, I've just seen your picture around," she lies easily, shrugging her shoulders. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Alright, I'll let it go," he decides. "For now. But I really am sorry, I didn't mean to-"

She shakes her head. "No, it's okay. I've just-" she sighs, placing her head in her hands. She's always been told not to put her elbows on the table – _be polite, Katie,_ her parents would say – but that's been long forgotten. "I've been trying to forget about New York."

"You don't have to tell me anything, Kate," Rick says quietly.

He can see her slowly opening up with every new bit of information, but he doesn't want her to say something she regrets. Something tells him that she isn't the type to do something she doesn't want to; she's tough, she's strong, and he can tell she's stubborn, too.

But even still, he doesn't want her to feel pressured to tell him anything just because she's sitting here with him.

"I know," she says. "But you were right. I uh- I need to talk to someone. As much as I might not want to say some of this stuff out loud, maybe it'll-" She looks up to the ceiling and a bitter laugh escapes her throat. "Maybe it'll do something, I don't know."

"I know for me, talking about something that's been weighing on me takes some of the pressure off my chest."

It's true. He may keep a lot of things bottled up sometimes, refuse to speak to anyone, but he can't deny that he feels even a bit better when he talks things through. It can be hard – _it's usually hard_ – but you can't move past something that you haven't accepted and dealt with.

"Yeah," she whispers, almost only to herself, before falling quiet once again.

"So, how is it that you know my last name, but I don't know yours?" Rick breaks the silence.

Kate rolls her eyes but looks towards him anyway. "Belleville," she says, but he doesn't miss the hesitation in her voice.

"Kate Belleville?"

She nods, keeping her gaze away from his.

"Sounds like a model," he muses, trying to get her to crack a smile. "Kate Belleville. It doesn't even sound real."

Her shoulders tense back up and he watches her freeze in place.

"Kate, are you okay?" he asks, just seconds before the waitress comes back with their food.

He thanks the woman but keeps an eye on Kate the entire time, and Kate follows suit, giving the waitress a small smile.

"No," Kate mumbles around a small bite of Alfredo, her foot tapping nervously beneath the table. There's no part of her that should be telling him - she's been warned beforehand about this - but there's something about being around him that makes these admissions-

Not _easier_, really, but more inviting.

He just looks at her curiously. "What?"

"It's not real," she continues slowly.

"Your last name, you mean?" She nods. "Why? Are you an undercover CIA agent? Oh!" His eyes light up like a child's on Christmas as he spouts his theories. "Oh my god, are you a Russian spy? Or witness protection! A CIA agent _in_ witness protection? Or maybe-"

"Castle," she sighs.

He stops and bows his head. "Sorry. But am I close?"

"Yes," she says, but she doesn't sound all that happy about it.

"You _are_ CIA, aren't you!" he exclaims, his voice a low whisper. He knows how secretive the CIA is about their clandestine operations and he respects that.

"I'm not CIA."

His boyish grin fades when he realizes that there's only one other option that stands as the correct answer now. Witness Protection.

"So that means… you're in witness protection?"

She shakes her head. "Yes and no," she says, rubbing her temples.

His brows scrunch up in confusion. "I don't understand," he says, watching as her shoulders slump over, much like they were when he first saw her. "Listen, Kate, like I said… you don't have to say anything. I know I'm not known for being reserved or anything, but I do know that kind of stuff is dangerous if it gets out, and I don't want you to feel like you owe me any kind of explanation."

"I know," she acknowledges, the ghost of a smile finding its way to her mouth. "But I've spent the last few years hiding, keeping everything to myself, and as much as I might deny it… I want to- I need to get it out."

She doesn't know what it is, but something about his sparkling blue eyes makes her comfortable confiding in him. It's ridiculous, considering she's barely known him a full day, but she tells herself that this doesn't mean anything, that she's only using him as someone to talk to. This'll all be over soon and they can both get back to their lives.

But just how much she truly believes her own words, deep down, she isn't too sure.

"Okay." He doesn't say anything else.

He waits for her, letting her take her time and speak only when she's ready. Until then, he picks at the food on his plate.

"I was nineteen," she says, catching his attention. "I um- I lost someone very important to me."

"I'm so s-"

She cuts him off, holding out one hand. "Please, if you start apologizing now I'll never get through this."

He nods and motions for her to continue. "I didn't handle it well. I couldn't cope and I just started spiraling. I drank to numb the pain, and when that wasn't enough anymore I-I turned to drugs. You name it, I was on it at one point or another. I was doing cocaine in shady clubs, in the basements of people I didn't know." She takes a shaky breath, not daring to chance a glance in his direction. If she sees the pained look on his face she knows she'll lose her nerve.

"That went on for a few months. I'd do just about anything for a fix, and… and I did. I knew it was dangerous, I knew what could've happened, but it didn't matter. I wasn't- I wasn't intentionally trying to hurt myself, but if something happened to me I wouldn't have cared."

She stops for a minute, pushing the food around on her plate. She's barely touched it, but she's not very hungry anymore. Rick's looking at her silently, his heart breaking with each word she says.

_She wouldn't have cared if she died_. That hit him hard, and he could feel his own emotions creeping up on him. He wants to reach out and touch her, place a comforting hand over her own trembling one, but he doesn't move.

"I did a lot of things I'm not proud of."

He doesn't know exactly where she's going with this, but a few possibilities pop into his head and none of them are pleasant.

"I slept with a lot of guys for drugs, extra cash, more pills, whatever I could get my hands on," she whispers, her voice wavering as the tears threaten to spill onto her cheeks. She absentmindedly fiddles with the napkin on her lap as she continues. "I uh- I let it get too far. Between the drinking, the drugs, the men – I was barely ever lucid. I just needed to forget, so I made sure I did. I was always buzzed or high or passed out somewhere on someone's couch, someone's bed."

He watches her as she speaks, her eyes never once meeting his. He doesn't blame her, and he's secretly thankful she doesn't look at him. He knows he wouldn't be able to deal with the tears in her eyes or the quiver of her lips as she tries to get the words out.

"One night I was really- I was really fucked up. I didn't know what I was doing. I was looking for a fix, but my usual go to didn't have what I wanted, so I went to the streets instead. A lot of it is still hazy. All I know is that at some point in my search for the drugs, I fell in with the wrong people and I started accusing them of knowing something about what happened to- what happened," she stops to take a breath, closing her eyes to blink away tears. "There were gunshots, death threats being yelled. I remember getting stabbed in the arm and then I woke up in the hospital with my father sobbing at my bedside."

She bites at the inside of her cheek, willing herself to finish without losing too much of her composure. "My- there are lawyers in my family and they know many law enforcement officers. I was told that I was leaving New York, for my own safety and for the safety of those around me. The people I got mixed up with wanted me dead, so I couldn't stay." She shudders as she takes a long, deep breath. "Kate Beckett doesn't exist anymore, hasn't from that moment. No one would know where I went. I'd be off the grid. They sat me down and told me what would happen, how to slide under the radar, how to start over somewhere else while leaving everything behind. They taught me how to- how to-"

"They taught you how to disappear," he finishes for her, to which she nods.

"It's not fully witness protection, not really," she says, wiping at a few stray tears. "People knew me and my parents, so they pulled a few strings and got me out of the state, got me a new name, a new apartment. To say I haven't taken to the change well is, well, pretty evident."

"Kate," he whispers. "I'm so sorry." He doesn't know what else to say. _I'm sorry_ seems so useless, so stupid to even say, but he's at a loss for words.

Imagine that, Richard Castle, writer extraordinaire, speechless.

How do you comfort someone who's gone through so much? What do you say to them? Nothing you say can magically make it better; nothing can bring back what they lost or erase what they've experienced.

"So now you know why I'm a mess," Kate whispers, a teary smile on her face. "The exit's over there," she nods her head towards the front door.

"You're not a mess," he challenges. "You've gone through something terrible, Kate. You can't expect yourself to just _get over_ that so quickly. That's not how it works."

She huffs as she slouches further down into her chair. "It's been two years."

He does the math in his head and realizes that makes her twenty one. Legally an adult, but still so young.

"Yes," he leans across the table, carefully grabbing her chin to make her look at him. "It's been two years and you've picked yourself back up. You don't look like someone who's on the streets anymore, you look like you've cleaned up."

She bites her lip and looks up, no longer able to fight the silent tears that makes their way onto her cheeks. "You met me at _Babs_, Castle. Obviously I'm not doing that well."

"No," he shakes his head. "Going to a bar for a drink doesn't make you weak, and it doesn't mean that you're not doing better. Everyone has bad days, bad months even."

"But-"

"No. Are you doing drugs?" She shakes her head slowly, her eyes cast downwards. "Are you drowning yourself in the bottle like you were two years ago?" She shakes her head again. "Are you- are you selling yourself to men?"

She shakes her head one last time. "Not anymore," she whispers.

"Then you're doing _better_, Kate. Don't sell yourself short like that," he says seriously.

She looks further away, unable to meet his eyes. Her water and food have been all but forgotten, abandoned in front of her, but she can't bring herself to do anything with it. She feels sick, emotions suddenly taking over her body as she jumps from her chair.

He watches with wide eyes as she makes her way to the restrooms in back, and he lets out a relieved sigh. He was sure she was heading for the door, and he's glad she didn't.

He tries to process everything he's just been told, but he doesn't even know where to begin. He knew there was something behind those sad eyes, a story that was deep that cut all the way to her core, but he did not expect _this_. Even his best wild stories couldn't have come up with a past so dark for a girl so beautiful, so _young_.

Nineteen when her life was turned upside down and she was uprooted as a result, sent on her own. She was still a baby herself. She didn't deserve what was given to her, doesn't deserve the residual shrapnel she still has to deal with two years later.

His eyes close for a few minutes, long enough for him to not immediately register her presence again. When he opens his eyes once more, she's standing a few feet away, a look of confusion – and something else he can't place – on her face.

"You're still here," she says quietly, the surprise evident in her voice.

_She thought he was going to leave? _

He looks at her incredulously, his brows creasing. "Of course I'm still here. I wasn't going to skip out on you when you got up, Kate." He hopes she doesn't really think that little of him. "Are you alright?" he asks, his voice considerably lowered, his tone soft.

She shifts on her feet, bringing her arms to cross over her chest.

"You don't have to deal with this," Kate murmurs, her voice so quiet he has to strain to hear her clearly. "I'm a mess, and I've done things-"

"Kate, I don't think less of you for _any_ of this," he says seriously, stopping her from continuing what he can only assume was going to be a list of reasons he shouldn't be wasting his time with her. "Not even a little bit."

She looks at him, teary eyed, and gives him a sad nod. "Yeah, well, I think lowly enough about myself for the both of us."


	5. Chapter 5

Over 100 follows, wow. Thank you guys so much! I'm glad so many of you are enjoying this little story, and I love hearing what you think about it! There's just one thing I want to address, of sorts.

To my guest reviewer, Mick: You said "a woman who sells herself for money and drugs," but that's in the past. It's been at least two years since she's been in that place and while there's obviously been a slip up here or there, she's been clean. Struggling with everything that's happened still, but clean. It's okay if you think Castle should make a run for the door, but I don't think that's who he is. I know someone who's been in a similar situation - not entirely, but in the sense that something happened and they spiraled, did things they regret. What they needed was support and a _friend_, someone to listen and be there for them, and that's exactly what Kate needs right now, that's exactly what Castle is. Calling Kate a "rinsed out whore and junkie" seems a bit much to me, because that's not what or who she is. So while I completely respect your opinion, as you're entitled to that, I just wanted to clarify those few things. I hope you understand, and I apologize if any of this came off a rude - that wasn't my intention!

Otherwise, I hope you all enjoy, and again, thank you for the sweet words!

* * *

><p>After their dinner he writes his number on a small piece of paper and hands it to her, successfully convincing her to put the number into her phone. He doesn't ask for her number; instead, he leaves the control in her hands and makes sure to let her know that she can call for anything, even if it's just to talk.<p>

He offers to walk her home but she declines, albeit politely, and insists that she's okay on her own. He lets her go after asking her to be careful - he _is_ a parent after all, it's a reflex - and he notices a tiny quirk of the sides of her mouth as she tells him she'll be fine.

Back at the hotel now, he sits on the bed, surrounded by fluffy pillows and his own discarded blazer. The television's playing and he thinks the food network is on, hears a faint yelling that sounds like Gordon Ramsay, but he's not paying much attention to it; it's all but a distant background noise at this point. All he can think of is his conversation with Kate. He didn't expect her to open up like she did, and while he's glad that she let him listen, he hopes it was because some part of her trusted him and not because she felt like she had to for some reason.

She _did_ say she wanted to get it off of her chest, though, so he chooses to believe that was the truth.

The things she's gone through-

_God_. He can't even imagine how that must feel, how hard it must have been, how hard it still is for her every day. He wants to help her in some way, but he doesn't know what to do, so he vows to just continue doing what he's doing - he'll be someone she can turn to, when she's comfortable to do so, and he'll listen.

She mentioned something about losing someone close to her, and he can't help but wonder who it was. A close friend? A family member, maybe? He doesn't dare ask her, knowing that's too intrusive, even for him. She's shared more than enough with him, he should be content with that.

And he is.

He's plopped in the middle of the pillows when his body shoots up and he braces his hands on the ruffled comforter in front of him.

"I forgot to tell her I'm leaving tomorrow morning," he mumbles out loud, mentally cursing himself for not thinking of it sooner.

With everything she told him at dinner, the fact that he's leaving didn't even cross his mind.

He knows it's ridiculous that he's getting worried about this. They're nothing special – he doesn't even know if he would go as far as to call them _friends _yet, exactly, but he cares about this girl. There's something about her, something he can't shake. He _wants_ to be her friend, wants to be someone she can talk to and know he won't judge her.

He doesn't want her to think his plan was to just weasel her story out of her and then leave without so much as another word.

He grabs his phone and goes to call her, but quickly remembers he doesn't have her number.

He doesn't know where she would be, doesn't know where she lives, so he can do nothing but wait and hope she calls sometime before he has to go.

* * *

><p>Kate rubs at her face, gently wiping under her eyes to erase any evidence of tears and eyeliner. Her cheeks are a bright red from the chill of the air, its effects only increasing as she ran the last few blocks to her apartment.<p>

She doesn't know what made her go to the restaurant with him, doesn't know why she spilled the majority of her guts onto the dinner table-

_Oh god_.

She just told the details of the darkest parts of her past to Richard Castle.

Her favorite mystery author, the one whose books served as somewhat of a solace for her, _Richard Castle_.

She covers her face with her hands as she sits on the edge of her bed. Her breathing becomes heavier as the panic creeps in and she feels her heart pounding against her chest; she's never told anybody about what she's done, about what's happened to her in the last few years.

The worst part is still hidden, kept under a tight lock and key.

At least she didn't expose that. She won't let that slip out as easily.

She shrugs her coat off finally, throwing it on the bed behind her, not bothering to hang it up like she knows she should. As it folds over on the sheets, a small piece of paper falls out of the pocket and she watches as it flutters to the floor.

When she picks it up she remembers exactly what it is.

His number.

He handed her the paper with his number on it and asked that she put it in her phone, just in case. A part of her wanted to object, but she couldn't, not with the imploring look that he was giving her. She wouldn't tell him, doesn't even want to accept it herself, but she was actually glad he offered his number. It's a small gesture, but it's one she appreciates.

She shakes her head. Ridiculous, that's what this is.

_Feel free to call me any time, even if it's just to talk,_ he had said._ I_ _mean it._

She nodded back to him, murmured something in response before turning to walk away. He offered to walk her home, but she told him she would be okay.

She still isn't entirely sure why she felt compelled to talk to him, except for the fact that she feels oddly comfortable around him, but she wasn't going to have him knowing where she lived. There are people she's known since she arrived in Michigan that don't even know where she lives.

The tiny piece of paper is thrown onto a nearby dresser as she stands up and makes her way into the bathroom.

"All this crying has to stop," she says to her reflection, taking notice of her puffy red eyes.

She tries to distract herself, which is easier said than done considering her apartment is close to bare, but the efforts are futile. Her mind wanders back to Rick, back to what he said to her after she told him her pathetic story.

_I don't think less of you for any of this._

It's stupid. He's known her for a day tops – he does _not_ know her. How can he say something like that - something so meaningful, something she doesn't want to admit to herself that she needed so desperately to hear.

When she looked back at him she saw nothing but sincerity; she's likes to think that she's a good judge of character, that she can tell when someone's lying to her. It's in their body language, their small ticks, the tone of their voice. His baby blues were nothing but honest when they bore into her eyes, silently pleading with her to let him listen.

She hates it.

It's been so long since someone looked at her like he does, and she doesn't know how to deal with it.

He listened, he didn't judge. He was considerate – she noticed how he didn't ask for her number, but gave her his instead.

Kate lets out a sigh as her body slides against the wall. A part of her wants to call him, but the other part is telling her that he didn't mean it, still. He just gave her his number as a platitude, a friendly gesture for the sad girl who cried over her chicken parmesan.

She drags herself to her bed, not bothering to change into pajamas, and buries herself under the covers, forcing herself to stop thinking.

* * *

><p>A sharp, generic ringtone blares through the hotel room, forcing Rick from a deep sleep. He shifts under the covers, throwing one arm out from beneath them with a moan as he reaches over to silence the source of the noise. He grabs his phone, eyes still closed, and answers it.<p>

"Hello," he says, voice slick with sleep.

He hears a huff on the other end. "Please tell me you're awake, Rick."

It's Gina.

He groans again and runs his free hand across his face. "What time is it?"

"It's 7 o'clock. You have to get ready to go to Detroit in two hours."

It's too early for this. Every fiber of his being is telling him to hang up on Gina, turn off his phone, and go back to sleep for another hour, but he doesn't.

"I'm up," he sighs.

"I don't hear you moving," Gina tells him, and he can hear the not-so-subtle exasperated undertones in her voice.

He holds the phone away from his ear and kicks his legs, ruffling the sheets to mimic the sounds of him getting out of the bed. "There, I'm out of bed."

"Good, now get ready. The car will be there to pick you up at 9."

"Yup," he nods, even though she can't see him.

"9 o'clock, Rick," she repeats, a warning.

He groans, this time not hiding it from the receiver. "Nine. I got it."

She hangs up and he throws the phone across the bed before stretching out with a moan. It's far too early to be awake, but he knows he has to be in Detroit by 10 for one of his final signings. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and sits up, finally, shivering at the chill that's engulfed the room overnight.

His clothes are still in his suitcase across the room, and he's dreading getting out from under the quilts to get them. He braves the cool air, though, and quickly changes into another one of his fancy-but-not-too-fancy outfits.

The sound of his stomach growling reminds him he should get something to eat before he leaves, so he orders room service – eggs and bacon, a classic – while he gathers the rest of his things to put into his suitcases. There are a few gift bags he got from fans at the signings, just little things that they brought for him. He's always appreciative of the support and he doesn't expect anyone to bring him anything, but when they give him snacks and other personalized presents he won't deny that he loves it.

He's almost done with his breakfast when his phone rings again and he lets out a sigh. If there's anything that's worse than an early morning start, it's an early morning start with multiple calls from Gina before noon.

"Gina, I _told_ you, I'll be ready," he says as soon as he answers the phone, not wanting to hear the following warnings she'll throw at him. He knows she doesn't think he's actually getting ready. She never does.

There's a silence on the other end, a very un-Gina like silence, and then he hears the faint sound of shallow breathing. It isn't Gina.

"I'm sorry," the voice says, and he swears he knows it-

Kate.

"Kate?" he asks, and the breathing on the other end hitches.

"Hi, I'm sorry," she starts, "I shouldn't have called. You're obviously busy-"

He shakes his head. "No, no, I'm glad you called. I'm not busy," he assures her. It's only a small lie – he has to leave in a little while, but he's completely packed so aside from finishing off his bacon, he's not actually doing anything at the moment.

"Gina," is all she says.

"What? Oh, no," he waves his hands around as he speaks, a habit he wishes he could break. "Gina's my publicist."

"Oh."

"Is everything okay?" he asks. It's not that he isn't happy she called, but he wants to make sure there's nothing wrong.

There's a silence before she speaks, and he thinks of the worse in that short period of time. "Everything's fine. I was just calling- I just wanted to-" she stops.

He lets out a silent sigh of relief but doesn't say anything, just waits for her to speak again.

"I wanted to thank you," she says quietly, barely above a whisper.

He can feel his heart constricting, a mixture of happiness and sadness coursing through him. She called, so that's progress. She doesn't really sound okay, but he tells himself it's because of the early hour. In the span of time he's known her, he's realized it's best if he picks and chooses his times to push, and right now doesn't seem like one of those times.

"There's nothing to thank me for, Kate," he replies, now sitting on the edge of the bed.

He hears her let out a breath. "Well, thank you anyway."

"Well, you're welcome anyway," he smiles.

"I should let you go-"

He needs to tell her he's leaving Ann Arbor. "Wait, there's a reason I'm glad you called," he says. He hesitates before he continues, nerves bubbling up, nerves he doesn't understand. "I have to leave town today for another signing."

She doesn't respond right away and he wonders if she hung up. Just as he's about to check, she speaks. "Okay." He swears he hears a hint of disappointment in her voice, but he doesn't comment on it.

"I didn't want you to think I was just going to talk to you and then leave without saying anything."

"Where are you going?" she asks him, and he notices how she ignores his previous statement.

He thinks for a minute, trying to remember which town Gina just told him was next. "Detroit."

She hums quietly. "Well, I hope you have fun."

"I should have told you last night, before you said anything."

"No, it's okay. You don't owe me anything," she mumbles. "It's easier this way. Now I don't have to see the way you'll look at me now that you know."

His brows furrow. "What?"

"Nothing," she sighs. "It's alright."

It doesn't sound alright to him. _The way you'll look at me now_. Did she really think he would look at her any differently now just because she told him some parts of her she's not proud of? She must have heard him when he said he didn't think any less of her because of her past.

"I wouldn't look at you any differently, Kate," he says seriously, needing her to understand.

She takes a deep breath, and he hears as she holds it in for a few seconds before releasing it. "That's the problem," she whispers, and he knows by the volume and tone of her voice that she didn't intend for him to hear her, that it was a statement to herself.

"I'm coming back after the rest of my signings," he says, even though he doesn't actually have any present plans to come back to Ann Arbor. "Will you meet me again?"

There's more silence on the other end before he hears a small, "I don't know."

"Please, Kate?"

She sighs and he braces himself for the rejection. He's surprised when instead of the no he was expecting, she says, "okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay," she whispers back.

The rest of the phone call is quiet, filled with some small talk, which is better than nothing, and eventually they both say goodbye and hang up, Rick slightly more confused than he was before. He wants to know why him looking at her normally is a problem. He's sure she has a reason, a reason he wouldn't understand, but he just – well, he _doesn't_ understand.

He told her he was coming back to Ann Arbor, not because he planned to, but because he feels like he needs to now. He can't leave Michigan for good without seeing her again.

He hasn't told Gina, or anyone else for that matter, that he's coming back to town after Detroit and Canton. He knows they won't be thrilled, knows they'll be confused, but he doesn't care. He'll let them go ahead and he'll take a later flight if he has to.

A while later, the car Gina sent to pick him up arrives at the hotel and he carries his luggage downstairs. As he trails through the lobby, he takes in the décor one last time, admiring the vintage paintings that pepper the walls.

The drive to Detroit is filled with a few conversations between him and the driver, gazing looks out the window to the snowy scenery that's before them, and thoughts of Kate, who's still very much a mystery to him.

* * *

><p>Just another small note: I've come to realize I update roughly the same time every week, so I think it's safe to say you guys can expect new chapters every SaturdaySunday!


	6. Chapter 6

The weather in Detroit is slightly worse than in Ann Arbor, periodic snow showers painting the streets and the surrounding buildings with blankets of white, but it's nice. What he's seen of it, anyway. Because he's only in Detroit for a day, he hasn't had much time to go exploring as he did in Ann Arbor. His schedule is planned out for him for the most part, offering only a small chunk of time in the evening where he's free to relax and do something that isn't book related.

He has to wait a couple of hours for the signing, so that _could_ be used as free time, but the weather outside is too daunting to have any fun in. He's all for the snow; he loves it actually - he suddenly wonders if Kate likes the snow, running around in endless mounds of it, or if she's more of a summer lover - but it's not as enjoyable when he's alone. Normally he has Alexis with him to build snowmen, make snow angels, and even engage in a few rounds of a rapid fire, anything goes snowball fight.

Not this time, though.

Only a few days until he's back with his little girl, and he's not sure how much longer he'll be able to wait. Thinking of her reminds him that he still has to find something for her while he's in town. It's become somewhat of a tradition now that he'll pick up a souvenir for Alexis from each country, state, or city he visits; it's usually just small trinkets or obscure books he finds in some of the lesser visited bookstores he comes across, but he loves doing it.

The look on her face when she gets every new souvenir, the genuine gratitude she shows over what may be the smallest thing, is his favorite part.

But he'll figure that out later.

If he's being honest, he's not all that bummed about not being able to go and scout out some of the places in town. He likes the idea of Babs being his special Michigan find and it feels wrong, like cheating in a way, to go seek out more places, more bars.

It's silly, he knows, and he laughs at himself as soon as the though passes through his mind. He tells himself it has nothing to do with the stunningly haunted woman he met in the aforementioned bar, but nevertheless, he doesn't plan on venturing out.

He strolls over to the window and watches as the puffy white flakes cascade down, condensing into water as they hit the glass. It's beautiful.

The awning above the storefront adjacent to his hotel room is covered in snow, so much so that it dips ever so slightly in the middle; too much more and they'll be looking for a new awning all together. Snow spills over the edges of the buildings, falling down like glistening waterfalls, and comes in contact with the heads of unsuspecting patrons below.

Those unfortunate few startle at the intrusion before continuing on their way, joining the bustle of people walking through the flurries. Some of them are dressed appropriately, tugging on their hats and curling their arms closer to their chests for warmth. Others, however, he sees walk by in jeans and tee shirts, no jackets or winter apparel in sight.

_Crazy_.

He's cold just looking at them.

He continues to observe the people passing by for a bit longer, taking in the reactions each of them have to the bitter cold, to the snowflakes being pelted into their faces, and then he just watches the snow fall. It's always been peaceful for him, no matter the time or place, and this is no different.

After a while he stops and backs away from the scene, taking the time to plop himself into the bed. He has roughly five hours left until the signing and he decides to take a much needed nap, something he hasn't been able to do much since the tour started.

He hasn't had the easiest time sleeping the past few nights, having more on his mind than he's willing to admit to, and figures now is the perfect opportunity to get some of those hours back.

His phone alarm is set twice; once for 3:30 and again for 4:00.

Double checking to make sure it's on PM and not AM, he shimmies underneath the blankets and dozes off.

* * *

><p>"Rick!"<p>

He thinks he hears a voice, but he just shifts positions, pulls the covers up further over his shoulders. It's his imagination.

"Rick!"

There it is again.

Maybe if he ignores it, it'll go away.

"Richard Castle!"

He groans and blinks his eyes open, waiting for his vision to come into focus before he looks up. When he does, he sees Gina standing at the foot of the bed, one hand on her hip and her brows raised.

She doesn't look very happy. But then again, when does she? He could probably count the times he's seen her _really_ happy on one hand.

"Gina?"

She huffs. "Rick, get up. Your signing is in a little more than an hour."

His eyes widen. "What? No it's not! It's not until 6:30."

"It's quarter to five, Rick," Gina tells him, the annoyance in her tone obvious. "Honestly, you really should know how to do this by now."

"I set two alarms to avoid this!" he almost squeaks, his voice higher as he fumbles for his phone. He grabs it from the charger only to be met with a blank screen.

He looks to the ground where his chord is plugged into the outlet, and he realizes that the charger isn't pushed in all the way. His phone was almost dead before he plugged it in and laid down to get some sleep, and apparently it'd knocked itself out of the socket just enough so it stopped charging.

Figures his phone would die while he's using it as an alarm.

_Great_.

"I'm sorry, okay," he mumbles, getting out of the bed to de-wrinkle his outfit. "I'm up, we're good."

He nods in her direction as an attempt to convince her, but she just shakes her head in response.

"Downstairs in 45 minutes," she calls over her shoulder as she walks out of his room. "And charge your phone."

Once she's gone he runs a hand through his now bed-ridden hair and stifles a yawn. He does feel a bit better after his – much longer than intended – nap. He feels more refreshed, if only slightly.

He'll take what he can get.

He plugs in his phone, for real this time, and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge. There are some complimentary snacks on the desk and he looks them over, inspecting every single option in front of him, before grabbing a few skittles from one of the packages.

Gina rolls her eyes at the request every time, but as far as he's concerned, you're never too old for skittles.

* * *

><p>The Detroit signing goes well, which is expected – long queue lines, sweet fans, and sharpie fumes. <em>Lots<em> of sharpie fumes. He's surprised he hasn't passed out yet.

There isn't much else to be done afterwards since he has to be up early yet again to head to Canton, so he goes back to the hotel, orders some room service, and just relaxes in his room for the remainder of the night. He does, however, manage to pop out for a few minutes to get Alexis something when the snow lightens up.

He opts for a book of historic sites in Detroit with an index of famous alums of the city in the back. She loves history, for reasons he's yet to fully understand, so he figures it would be a fitting choice.

Canton is now approaching quickly as he plays with his phone in the backseat of the car, alternating between downloading an excessive amount of games he doesn't actually need and fiddling with the different functions of the new Blackberry. He stops to snaps a few pictures as they drive, wanting to appreciate the differing landscapes that are before him.

He has a bit more time in Canton than he did Detroit, but still not nearly as much as Ann Arbor. There were some last minute travel changes so he ends up with more time than he was originally offered. With a full day at his disposal - since his signing isn't until the following morning - he has some more leeway to explore and do as he pleases, which he's excited about.

They pull up to the hotel and it looks fairly fancy from the outside, decorative gold plating details - because they wouldn't use pure gold, _right?_ - rimming the entire entrance, and he wonders if the inside will look as elaborate. He imagines it'll be just as upscale, if not a bit more, and upon walking in he realizes he was right.

It's nothing extravagant, but it's clear that it's nicely kept, more high-end than your normal run of the mill hotel. There are small ornate features painting the walls and doorways, more gold plating being put to use. He didn't expect anything less, considering Gina's the one who booked all of their reservations. She likes the finer things in life, and while he can't deny that he enjoys the splurging and lavish lifestyle he's privileged to live, he also wouldn't have minded staying in a more low key hotel.

He likes the smaller places, the history within them, the vintage feel – which is probably due to the fact that most of them _are_ vintage, owned by the same family for decades. He loves that.

"Think you can find something to do," Gina starts once they get to the hallway upstairs, "without getting yourself into trouble?"

Rick rolls his eyes. "It was one time, Gina, let it go."

"I'm just trying to make sure it _stays_ one time," she says with a grin, switching her purse onto the opposite shoulder.

"Don't you worry about that," Rick assures her, an amused smile plastered on his face. "I will be perfectly fine."

Gina just nods, seemingly convinced for once, and makes her way down the hall to her own room.

Once he's inside his room he takes a look around and notices there are more paintings on the walls than there were in either of the previous hotels. It gives the room a certain _something_ that he can't put his finger on, but he likes it.

He throws his bags down on the couch to his right and has to restrain himself from jumping right onto the bed. It looks so comfortable, so inviting, and while he would love to spend the entire day lounging and relaxing, doing absolutely nothing, he knows that'd probably be frowned upon.

He has an entire day to himself and needs to find something to do.

As he's flipping through some of the channels, looking for something to occupy himself with in the meantime, a light bulb suddenly goes off in his head.

Nikita, the figure ska-_ ice dancer_, from the bar.

He mentioned something about how he trains in Canton at some skating club. At least, he thinks it was Canton. He doesn't remember exactly, the drinks from that night having made some of their conversations somewhat hazy, but he thinks he's right.

Nikita had told him that he should come on down to the rink, get on the ice, and Rick just laughed. But now that he's actually in town, with nothing else to do with his time, he wonders if Nikita actually meant what he said about stopping by.

He's sure he'll be dreadful on the ice, having little to no coordination when it comes to these types of things, but what's he got to lose?

He digs his phone out of his pocket and calls the man in question, remembering that they'd all exchanged numbers before they left that night.

"Hello," he says when the voice on the other end picks up. "Is this Nikita?"

He hears shuffling on the other end, lockers closing, but then the man answers, letting him know that he got the number right and it is in fact Nikita from the bar.

"It's Rick, from Babs," he tells him, and then continues to explain that he's in Canton and has the day off. Rick recalls the offer Nikita made a few days prior and he remembers, assuring the writer that he was being serious and he should definitely come on down to-

Arctic Edge.

That was it – the Arctic Figure Skating Club. _That's_ where he trained.

He was close enough.

They hang up moments later, Rick first making sure he wrote down the directions from Nikita explaining how to get to the rink. He's already there, having been training for hours beforehand, and tells Rick that it's fine if he comes by.

He's not sure what to bring with him, so he just grabs his wallet, hotel key, phone, and leaves, waving to the hotel receptionist as he makes his way out.

* * *

><p>When he finally pulls into the parking lot of the rink, he lets out a breath of relief. He took a few wrong turns and ended up in Westland, and then in an attempt to get back on track he found himself back at the hotel, leaving him to start the journey all over again.<p>

He could've called a car to take him, and thinking about it now that's what he probably _should_ have done, but he decided to rent a car for the day instead. It's cheap, not that he would've been worried about it being a bit higher priced, and having the car gives him a way to get around later on as well.

Plus, he's perfectly capable of getting around without a driver. He's been doing it most of his life.

He finishes parking the car, next to an extremely expensive black Lamborghini Diablo, and he wonders if this is like the country club of the skating world. With a car like that, the newest of its kind, the people who frequent this place have to have money.

It makes him subconsciously nervous about his parking, not wanting to accidentally scratch it on his way out of the spot later. Though, looking around, most of the cars parked within his vicinity are on the more luxurious side, so it doesn't really matter which one he sits beside.

He gets out of the car and stretches, lengthening his back after the unintentionally prolonged ride. It's still cold out but it's not unbearable, and he finds himself enjoying the soft breeze that's cast in his direction.

The outside of the building is fairly low-key – it's all concrete for the most part, "Arctic Edge of Canton" written in large red and blue letters on the front.

Once he's inside he just hovers in the alcove for a few seconds, taking in the spacious skating club. He doesn't remember exactly where Nikita said he would meet him - _excellent listening skills, Rick_ - so he decides to stand somewhere a bit further inside, hoping he'll see him.

It's pretty nice, he thinks. He wanders to his left and stumbles upon a clear glass case, rows and rows of trophies and various placing medals sitting on perfectly spaced shelves. Peeking inside, he takes notice of just how many awards the skaters there have won, and he finds it impressive. Skating isn't exactly his sport or anything, but he gives credit where it's due - he admires the hard work they put in.

He touches one of the glasses and it shakes, causing him to fumble backwards in a panic. It doesn't fall, _thank god_, and he steps back and doesn't touch anything else. He does _not_ need to break anything in that case; Gina would never let him live that down, and he'd never hear the end of it.

There are a few skaters here and there, a few talking with who he assumes to be their coaches, but it's not crowded at all. It only takes a few more minutes before he sees Nikita rounding one of the corners, coming out of a side room.

"Rick, hey," he greets with a firm handshake when he walks over, "How are you?"

Rick returns the gesture and nods. "Tired," he laughs. "Busy with the tour, but good. How's training going?"

Nikita nods dramatically. "Tiring, too. It's long hours, but it is worth it. Working up to the Olympics is not easy."

"Olympics, wow."

He knew he was training, but didn't know it was for the Olympics. He imagines himself training long hours, day in and day out, and knows immediately he wouldn't survive.

"It's alright," Nikita waves a hand dismissively, clearly not one to brag. "Let's get you some skates and I'll introduce you to my partner."

Rick follows Nikita to the back where he grabs a pair of men's skates from a shelf. Once they're on – with help from Nikita, because he swears they're not as easy as they look – they make their way out to the ice. Rick falls slightly behind, not used to walking in the skates, and holds onto any surface he can to keep himself from tipping over.

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," he says nervously, knowing if he can barely keep his balance on the floor, the odds of him keeping steady on the ice are slim to none.

Nikita just laughs. "Come on, Rick, you'll be fine."

Rick sighs, knowing he has to go through with it. He follows Nikita onto the ice, making sure to keep one hand on the boards at all times. He slides along for a while, content with his slow pace, before Nikita grabs his arm and tugs him forward. He introduces him to his partner, Elena, gesturing to a petite Russian girl with flowing brunette hair. Her accent is considerably stronger than Nikita's; Nikita has an accent, but his English is very well spoken, and shows clear signs of it having been heavily Americanized. Elena's is much thicker, and while she also speaks English well, more of her words break off and taper into more Russian-sounding pronunciations.

After the introductions, they decide to do a few laps around the rink, much to Rick's hesitation. He takes his hand off the board he was previously clinging to and quickly loses his balance, wobbling on the skates, but he manages to catch himself just in time so he doesn't go down.

He eventually finds his footing and is able to glide around the rink without holding onto the boards. He tries to do some fancy footwork – he tries to show off, which is poorly planned and poorly executed – and he tumbles to the ice, a cluster of flailing limbs. He comes up laughing, ignoring the sting the ice leaves on his legs, and propels himself towards the other two.

The three of them skate around, Nikita and Elena teaching Rick a few of the simpler things. Many falls later, he gets a few of them down, and he's unnaturally proud of himself.

The duo then offer to show Rick the routine they've been working on, and he happily accepts, taking a standing position towards one of the boards further back. Their routine is excellent, well polished, and he wonders how they manage to do all of that without falling. He carries Elena effortlessly, doesn't flinch when her blade situates itself between his pelvic joint to do a lift.

"You guys are incredible," Rick compliments as they skate back towards him. "Is that what you're taking to the Olympics?"

"Thank you," Elena says, smiling brightly. "Yes, we are working on this for the Olympics."

"It still needs a few tweaking," Nikita cuts in. "But it's coming along pretty well I think."

Rick nods. "Absolutely. I'll be sure to watch them and root for you guys!"

He's not one to watch the Olympics, usually, but he's also never known anyone who was going to compete at them before either.

"We have to get there first," Nikita tells him, but there's a grin laced in his words. "Hopefully, though."

Elena excuses herself to go take a water break, and Nikita tells him that they have to get back to their training soon.

Rick is about to tell him that he should get going as well, seeing as he's been there much longer than he intended, when two kids step onto the ice. They're young – the girl doesn't look older than twelve and the boy looks about the same age, give or take a year. He watches them skate together to the middle of the rink and do what look to be like warm ups.

It looks odd, but then again he knows nothing about skating.

"Are they training too?" he asks Nikita, who turns to follow his line of sight to the two kids.

Nikita nods. "That's Meryl and her partner Charlie. They're still juniors, been skating together for about three years now."

Rick continues to watch them – it's not creepy, he tells himself, he's simply admiring what they're doing. The girl is petite, both in stature and size, dark brown hair pulled up into a loose bun on the top of her head. She reminds him of Alexis, and he can't suppress the smile that forms at the thought. The boy is a few inches taller than her, a mop of blonde curls flopping around his face.

"I think they're about to do a run through," Nikita says, grabbing Rick's arm to usher him off the ice. "You can watch. I'm going to get some water."

Rick nods and stands behind the glass, watching the two of them start their program. Despite being taller, the boy has a small build, but he lifts the girl effortlessly, spinning her around his body with ease. He notices how the girl doesn't look him in the eyes and he grins, knowing all too well how those things work at that age.

They spin around the ice, perfectly in sync, and he finds himself mesmerized.

He suddenly wonders if Alexis would consider skating. Picturing her in a cute dress, similar to the pale blue one the girl – Meryl – is wearing, would be the cutest thing.

When they finish he finds himself clapping, startling the kids who didn't seem to register his presence. He realizes this and steps forward, poking himself through the door to the rink.

"Sorry," he yells to them quickly, "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to scare you guys. You were great!"

Charlie is the one who answers first. "Thank you, sir!"

Meryl smiles shyly instead, and he thinks he hears a small, polite "thank you" from her as well.

He makes a mental note to keep up with the Olympics, because he's sure these kids will end up there someday.

Nikita comes back and takes the skates from Rick, putting them back on the shelf and handing him the sneakers he'd relinquished earlier.

"Thanks for today, Nikita," Rick says, genuinely thankful for the distraction. It was something to do for the otherwise dull day, and he actually enjoyed it.

Nikita shakes his head. "Anytime. Good seeing you again!"

"If you're ever in New York you'll have to stop by my place," Rick says, an honest invitation.

"Absolutely! Thanks, man."

After saying their goodbyes, Nikita goes back to training with Elena alongside Meryl and Charlie, and Rick makes his way back to the car so he can head to the hotel.

The Lamborghini is gone and he claps his hands together, grateful that there's no chance of him scratching it now.

Rick thinks about his day on the ice and how he wasn't as atrocious as he originally thought he would be – after a while, of course.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he went skating more frequently; he could take Alexis, who he's sure would love it. Plus, he's not awful. He thinks he was pretty decent by the end of the day.

His mind immediately goes back to all of the falls, stumbles, and love connections his backside made with the ice, and he shakes his head with a laugh.

On second thought, maybe he'll just stick with writing.

* * *

><p>It seems the site had other plans when I tried uploading this last night, but here it is! This is just a little look into how Rick spent his tour days, and we'll be getting back into Kate and RickKate with the next chapter :)

Thank you for all of your continued support, I really can't even explain how much it means to me. Reading (and responding to!) your reviews make my day, so please feel free to leave comments/concerns/etc.

I know a few of you said you wish updates could be quicker, and trust me, I do too! My classes this semester are much more demanding than I'm used to, so they take up the majority of my time during the week - I am doing my best to get as much of this written as quickly as I can, though!

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I look forward to hearing what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

I managed to find some free time earlier, so here's an early chapter! I hope you enjoy, and please feel free to tell me what you think.

* * *

><p>Kate finds herself sitting at the bar, drink in hand, but something's different this time.<p>

She's been there for the better part of an hour, occupying the same tall stool she always gravitates towards when she doesn't choose a booth; there's nothing special about this particular stool, but it's _her_ seat, chosen two years ago when she first stumbled into the bar, and she can't bring herself to sit somewhere else. The surface is icy beneath her, the chill from the air not having fully dissipated yet. Her hand is wrapped around the glass, swishing around a variation on a vodka soda, but she isn't drinking it. Normally she'd most likely have had a few by now, polishing off yet another one, but this is her first drink.

Not even her usual is keeping her mind busy, stopping her from over-thinking and over-analyzing everything that's transpired in the past few days. It's always been a bad habit of hers, taking a seemingly small occurrence, an unimportant event and twisting it around, beating it around in her brain until she goes insane. Even as a child and a teenager she'd do this, much to the displeasure of her parents. _You'll burn yourself out if you don't stop, Katie,_ they'd say. She had questions about everything and in turn questioned everything, tried to rationalize what should have otherwise been a simple, trivial action.

Not much has changed, she supposes.

The only difference now is that she doesn't think this has been a meaningless, unimportant event. And that, the unknown territory she's - _they're_? - venturing into is just what might scare her the most.

"You okay there?" The voice causes her head to shoot up, startled eyes meeting a pair of inquiring ones as she does.

She nods, casting a small smile in his direction. "Yeah, Tony, thanks."

He looks back at her, disbelief etched in his features. "You look like you're in deep thought, kid."

"Something like that," she mumbles.

Tony's always been sweet, an open confidant for anyone who needs him, but she's never said much to him. Casual conversations are frequent, of course, but he knows nothing about her past. Even in her almost two years at the bar, she's kept fairly tight lipped about the circumstances surrounding her relocation. Thinking about it now, she realizes she doesn't really know that much about him either. Knowledge that he owns the bar is obvious, but she doesn't even know if he's married. There's a ring on his finger - she recalls seeing it a while back - but she's never seen a woman with him. She wonders if it's just him now or if she just doesn't come to the place; for his sake, she hopes it's the latter.

If there is a Mrs. Tony - does Tony have a last name? He has to, but she doesn't think she's ever heard it used - something tells Kate that she's just as personable as the older man behind the counter.

"Really, I'm okay," she repeats, putting on her persuasive face for the man.

"Whatever you say," he acquiesces, but he leans in closer. "But I'm a good listener, you know, if you ever need it."

She doesn't know why she's surprised by his comment, shouldn't be given his thoughtful reputation, but she is. She nods and murmurs a small thank you, the beginning of a genuine smile peeking around the corners of her mouth.

"Where's the writer?" Tony asks, catching her off guard.

"What?"

Tony looks at her. "The writer. Rick, was it?"

"Oh," she shakes her head. She's been trying to avoid thinking about him, but even she knows that's a battle she was losing. "He's in Detroit."

Tony's eyes widen. "Oh, wow. Was wondering where he'd gone to when I didn't see him."

Kate just hums in response.

"You talk to him?" She nods slowly. "Good, you should."

"What? Why?" she asks, her brows furrowed. Why would _Tony_ think she should talk to him? How does he even know that they know each other? In the most general sense, that is.

Tony shrugs, leaning against the bar, his elbows propping himself up. "He could be good for you."

He must see her face twist in confusion because continues before she can say anything. "Look, I know you're not okay, Kate."

"I'm-"

"No," he cuts her off. "I know you aren't. And that's okay. You've been a woman of few words ever since you got here, but I've watched you beat yourself up. I've seen you crawl in here, bruised and drunk." Kate bows her head in embarrassment, mortified that those nights even occurred, but more so that the man standing in front of her witnessed her at rock bottom. She knows those days were anything but pretty.

"There were times you ended up back in your apartment and didn't know how you got there, weren't there?" he finishes, his voice a low whisper so no one else can hear the conversation they're having.

Her mouth drops open, her mind flashing back to those late nights when she'd woken up in her apartment. The last memory she had was of bottles of liquor, slurred sentences and fumbling limbs, yet she was in her own bed, fully clothed, with no recollection of going home at all. The initial shock wears off but she doesn't know what to say, the vulnerable feeling creeping into the pit of her stomach, and she crosses her arms over her chest. "How did you," she starts, but then the realization plays over her features. "That was you?"

Tony nods, a small, unassuming smile on his lips. "Guilty."

"How?"

"Called a cabbie I know," he says simply. "One of the guys downstairs knew your address, so I gave it to the driver and told him to take you home, to make sure you were okay before he left."

She lowers her head, a prickle of tears threatening to fill her eyes. The man doesn't know much about her, if only because she's made it a point to keep herself closed off, but he went out of his way to ensure that she got home safely regardless.

He really does remind her of her father.

"Thank you," she whispers quietly, overwhelmed by the man's actions.

Tony shakes his head. "No need, Kate. I don't know what happened to you, and you don't have to tell me unless you ever want to – that's none of my business," he stops to take a breath. "But that writer, he cares too. I can see it. Trust an old man, will you?"

Kate laughs. "How can you be so sure?"

"He talked to me before. Asked about you, wanted to know if I knew you. I've had many men ask about you, Kate, but this wasn't like that. He wasn't looking for your number or your address; he just wanted to see if you were okay."

She shifts in her seat, unsure of what to say to that. She wants to trust Tony but somewhere, deep down, there's still that nagging voice telling her she'd be naive to believe that he cares. After all, why would he want anything to do with her? He's a high profile, extremely successful mystery writer, and she's just – she's just _her_. She's just Kate. She's broken, she carries more baggage than most. She's a mess.

"Just, maybe, keep talking to him. Let him be a friend, or just let him listen. It could do you some good," Tony says finally, a few minutes after her prolonged silence.

"Thanks, Tony," she looks up at him with a nod. "I'll try."

She wonders if she should call him. She tells herself that he's probably busy with one of his signings or some other important book related rendezvous. She doesn't want to interrupt. There's a voice in her head telling her to wait, see if he calls her first - if he even put her number into his phone after she called, that is. Maybe he forgot, or maybe he didn't bother to save the number at all.

He may not even come back. She knows that he said he planned on coming back to Ann Arbor, asked her to meet him again, but she doesn't know if those plans will actually be followed through.

She wants to believe he will, that they'll meet up once more – she doesn't know why, and she doesn't like it, but she wants to see him again. He makes her feel like she has someone to turn to, and she hasn't felt like this in a long time.

She doesn't like to admit it, doesn't like how he's somehow managing to worm his way past her defenses, but this feels different.

He asked Tony about her – wanted to see if she was okay, according to the bartender. And that was before they really talked, before they were friends - are they friends? Acquaintances? Some weird limbo between the two? Tony says the writer cares about her, and while she still doesn't understand _why_, she's finally, slowly, beginning to accept it, believe it.

_Why else would he waste his time going through all this trouble_, she tries to reason with herself.

She picks up the glass that's been abandoned in front of her and brings it to her lips, taking a small swig of the liquid before placing it back on the bar.

"Tony," she calls him over, "Can I get a glass of water, please?"

He nods with a smile. "Sure thing."

There's something about the alcohol to her left that's no longer appealing to her at the moment. She finishes it off anyway, in need of the minuscule amount of liquid courage it'll give her, but doesn't ask for another. That's what the water's for.

She thanks Tony when he hands her the glass and tries to ignore the look of pride she sees on his face.

This man's seen parts of her she wishes he hadn't, but she knows, can easily tell that he's looking out for her. It took her a long time to realize it, longer than it should have, but it's there, an unspoken serge of encouragement sent in her direction.

Kate polishes off most of the water before placing the almost empty glass in front of her. She sighs, her feet tapping rhythmically beneath her, her body fidgeting on the stool.

_Relax_, she tells herself, but she continues to shake. It's barely noticeable, only a subtle tremor, but it's enough to skyrocket the slow burning panic that's been tearing its way through her body, accumulating over the past few days.

It's all hitting her - thoughts of whatever _this_ is with Richard Castle, what he wants and what it means, the flashbacks to her rougher days that her recent conversations have resurrected. It's a steady surge of fear coursing through her veins, hitting every nerve in its wake, akin to the destructive nature of spewing lava flowing over an unsuspecting city. She wants to run for the door, hide away until it passes, but she stops, tells herself that she's going to get better at this. She's tired of feeling like this, of over-thinking to the point of panic. Instead of running, she closes her eyes, tries to calm the fight or flight response currently battling inside her.

"Take a deep breath." The voice surprises her and her eyes shoot open, finding herself staring at Tony. "Go ahead, close your eyes again."

She does as he says and slowly closes her eyes once more. "Breathe in for four seconds." When she peeks one eye open to look at him, a brow raised, he just waves his hand as if to say _do it, trust me_.

So she does.

"Hold it for seven seconds," he tells her, his voice gentle as she holds in the breath. "Now exhale for eight seconds."

The breath leaves her slowly as she counts to eight in her head, her eyes still closed. She can feel herself coming down, her heartbeat returning to normal, her breathing more regulated. The edge fades slowly, but the steady breathing alleviates the effects, and she slowly opens her eyes.

"How did you-" Her voice is slightly breathy as the question trails off her tongue.

Tony gives her a knowing smile. "My wife used to have panic attacks sometimes, usually when she was stressing about something, and this is what helped her calm down."

She gives him a small smile in response, raking her hand through her hair. "Thank you."

"Here, drink this," he waves her off, handing her another glass of water. "Slowly. It'll help."

Tony stays close for a bit longer, trying to look inconspicuous as he keeps an eye on her, before she finally promises him that she's okay and he can focus on the other bar-goers. He agrees, albeit reluctantly, and goes back to tending to the bar.

She feels stupid for getting so worked up about this.

She's never been good with these kinds of situations, or really, any situations that come accompanied with change. She's a creature of habit, always has been. Even before- well, before everything shattered around her, sending her into a downward spiral that she's still desperately trying to claw herself out of.

After a few more minutes of just focusing on her breathing and nothing else, she gets up, needing some fresh air. She nods to Tony on her way out, another unspoken _thank you_ embedded in the gesture.

* * *

><p>Her apartment welcomes her back with a quiet, nondescript homecoming. The rumbling of her stomach reminds her that she hasn't eaten much since her dinner with Castle two days ago, so she rummages through her refrigerator for something quick and easy she can whip up. There are takeout containers piled on the shelves, fruits that have grown some sort of fur, and two half gallons of milk. She's not entirely sure how good any of it is – she can't even remember the last time she ordered out, and the milk seems to have expired a week ago.<p>

And, well, the fuzzy fruit is a no-go.

She's not _that_ hungry.

She sighs and closes the fridge, having found nothing of use in there, and turns her attention to the cabinets that fill the walls of the kitchen. Surely she has to have something in one of them; some soup, canned foods, anything.

After coming up empty in the first two cabinets – although she did find an old bowl of her mother's she didn't know she misplaced until now – she tries for the third. There's some rice, some corn, and-

_Yes! _She finds some mashed potatoes in the back corner, forgotten for god knows how long, and she grins. It's not the most glamorous or ideal meal, but she can work with this.

Once it's done she plops onto her couch, a plate of mashed potatoes and corn on her lap. She pushes the food around for a while before finally eating some, though her appetite seems to have evaded her once again. She forces herself to eat at least half of it still, knowing she'll be worse off later if she doesn't.

Her phone is sitting on the couch cushion next to her and she side eyes it, alternating her gaze between the phone and the food in front of her.

"This is ridiculous," she breathes to herself.

She knows what she wants to do, but she doesn't know if she can bring herself to.

Before she knows it, the phone is in her hand, heavy fingers hovering over the key pad.

She pushes the plate of food onto the nearby table and curls her legs so she's now sitting Indian style on the couch, her back supported in the corner between the arm rest and the cushions. Her heart pounds in her chest, and she can't help but laugh at herself. She's never been one to be nervous making phone calls, and yet here she is, hesitant and scared.

"Just do it," she commands herself, her voice authoritative as she tries to give herself what is supposed to be a pep talk. "Come on, just _call him_."

She scrolls to his name in her contacts and hovers above it for a few seconds, the call button taunting her.

It's simple. Just press call. One button, no pain.

She takes a breath and makes the call, pressing the button quickly before she can talk herself out of it. The phone is held close to her ear, and every second he doesn't answer causes her heart to jump into her throat.

"Hello?" He answers on the third ring.

It's a few seconds before she returns his greeting. "Hi."

"Kate?" He asks, and she can hear the surprise and – is that a smile? – in his voice.

"Yeah, hi, I was just-" She doesn't actually have a reason for calling; she just wanted to talk to him. "I just wanted to see how the tour's going?" she finishes, cursing herself when it comes out as more of a question.

He laughs on the other end, and the sound brings an unexplainable soothing quality with it, almost calming her. "It's pretty much your run of the mill tour at this point," he says. "The signings have been painless, the fans are as enthusiastic as always. There was a slight commotion when a woman asked me to sign her chest, but other than that..."

She lets out a lighthearted scoff. "Please, I'm sure you loved that."

"She was sixty seven, Kate."

The noise that comes out of her throat as she tries to suppress her laugh is embarrassing. "The elderly need love too, you know. Should've gotten her number."

"Ha ha very funny," he laughs sarcastically. "So, how are you?"

"I'm good," she tells him automatically. It's a reflex, but it's not untruthful.

"How are you really?" he asks again, his voice so soft it surprises her.

"I'm-" she hesitates, unsure of what to say to that. "I'm doing okay, really."

And she is. She's had a few rough moments, a few panicked moments, but she's okay. She wants to be better, but she's learned to settle for okay, so that'll do. For now, at least.

Even now, talking to him, she feels lighter, more at ease, despite the turn in conversation.

He's silent for a few seconds. "Then I'm really happy to hear that, Kate," he replies, and she knows it's genuine.

She's about to say something when he starts again. "Are you eating?" he questions, but before she has a chance to reply he amends it. "I'm sorry, that was too-"

"No," she cuts him off. If anyone else had asked her, chances are she'd bite off their head, get defensive and avoid the question. But she doesn't. "I just ate, actually."

She can practically hear his grin through the phone. "Really? Good. I'm glad."

"There's not much here right now, but yes."

"I'll have to get you some food when I come back, then," he says easily, as if that's not a big deal.

Her mouth drops open, shocked. "What? I- No, that's not necessary, really-"

"You need food, Kate."

"I have food!" she assures, suddenly desperate to assuage his concerns.

He doesn't sound convinced. "You just told me you didn't have much there."

Shit. She did, didn't she.

"I'm fine," she tells him, her voice firm. She doesn't need him buying her groceries; she's more than capable of doing it herself, she just hasn't gotten around to going yet.

"But-"

"No," she repeats. "No groceries, okay?"

"Okay, okay, fine," he concedes reluctantly.

A silence fills the air then, both of them trying to figure out what the best thing to say is. Eventually, surprisingly, it's Kate who breaks the silence.

"So," she starts slowly, trying to gauge the situation, see if he's upset about her refusal. "Are you still in Detroit?"

He sighs, what sounds like a sigh of relief, and she lets one of her own out. "No, I'm in Canton. Cute town. Unnecessarily cold, but cute. I'm coming back to Ann Arbor tomorrow," he comments, taking the unspoken question right out of her mouth.

"Oh, okay." She smiles, glad he's actually coming back.

"You're still okay with meeting me again, right?" he asks, the nerves and hesitation in his voice evident. "If you don't want to, though, or you're uncomfortable-"

"No," she cuts off his rambling. "I told you I was in, so, I'm still in."

Sure, there's still that small part of her advising against this meeting, telling her to cut her losses while she's somewhat ahead, before she can get hurt, but she can't bring herself to.

She doesn't know how he did it, but he's gotten her to trust him, to some degree - which isn't an easy feat, by any means; Kate Beckett does not trust easily - and she wants to see him again. Even if it's for what's probably the last time.

"Okay, good." He lets out a breath. "Have you ever been ice skating?"

The question comes out of left field and she's never been more grateful that he can't see her face. It's contorted in a mixture of confusion and pain, memories of going skating with her mother still fresh in her mind.

"Yeah," she manages, trying to keep her voice level.

He seems to sense the change in her tone and explains. "I only ask because I went today, with one of the guys from Babs – Nikita?" She nods, though he can't see her; she knows Nikita. He's in the rambunctious crew of guys always at the pool table. They've only talked a few times, tops, but he's a nice guy. "He showed me around his rink here in Canton. He's crazy talented. I, on the other hand-"

"Spent most of the time getting acquainted with the ice?"

"Hey now! I'll have you know I only fell once or twice," he says, amusement laced in his voice.

She grins. "In the first half hour, probably."

"I am a master of the ice, Kate."

She can't stop the laughter that bubbles out of her, echoing throughout the empty room. "Okay, whatever you say, Castle."

They talk for a few more minutes before Kate politely bows out of the conversation. She's in desperate need of a shower - or maybe a nice, long bath - but she's not about to tell him that. He also has to go, mentions something about how Gina will throw him into a mound of fire ants if he's late for his signing in the morning. She hasn't met the woman, but something tells her he shouldn't push his luck.

The phone call ends and she sits back further onto the couch. A contented sigh leaves her throat as she stretches out her body, a mixture of excitement and nervousness for tomorrow looming in the air.


	8. Chapter 8

I don't know how this one ended up so long, but I didn't want to cut it into two, so I apologize for that. Thank you so much for all of your support and sweet words, I appreciate them more than you know. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I look forward to hearing your thoughts!

* * *

><p>His mind is buzzing with anticipation, thoughts of the possible directions his meeting with Kate could go whirling around his brain. He's been playing out different scenarios in his head all day, complete with dialogue between the two, and he's hoping the actual thing goes even half as well as his imagination's version of events.<p>

Their conversation the previous night lifts his spirits though, giving him a reason to believe that she just might be as receptive to this friendship as he is. She seemed more open than he's known her to be thus far, engaging in the lighthearted banter, teasing him about his ice escapades. It felt good, it felt _right_, like a normal phone call between friends. And that's what he's aiming for – friends. Sure, she's stunningly beautiful and he can only hope that maybe, someday, in some universe, they might end up as something more than just friends, something he can't deny he wants, but not now. He knows she isn't in the right place for a relationship like that, like the one he pictures for the two of them; he knows she isn't ready. She's still young, still wounded, a troubled past menacingly looming above her head like a dark cloud. What she needs is a friend, someone to pick her up when she's down, and that's exactly what he intends to be.

If she'll let him.

And _god_, he prays she lets him, prays she doesn't push him away now. Not after what he perceives to be progress. They may be small steps, but they're steps in the right direction. It's progress.

He shakes his head, forces himself out of his own thoughts, the same thoughts that have been circulating all day. He's currently en route back to Ann Arbor, his body slumped against the frigid window of the backseat. The snow is still falling, steadily quickening in its pace with each passing minute; it hasn't let up much at all and thick flakes continue to crash into the windshield, splattering into puddles of water upon impact.

Gina's reaction to his semi-impromptu trip - he can't say it's been a truly spur of the moment decision; he's known all along, in the back of his mind since the moment he met her, he'd have to return - back to Ann Arbor had been... well, it was as painless as stepping on shards of broken glass. Barefoot.

"_What do you mean you're going back to Ann Arbor," Gina's voice resounds off of the hotel walls. There's a bite to her tone, loud and angry, and there's no mistaking just how displeased she is with this revelation. _

_He shrugs nonchalantly. "Just what I said," he says. "I'm going back to Ann Arbor for the day." _

"_No, you're not."_

"_I'm a grown man, Gina. I'm telling you as a courtesy, I don't need your permission." He hadn't intended to turn the conversation into the beginnings of a fight or match the level of her voice, didn't mean for it to come out so sharp, but he's tired of her telling what he can and cannot do, where he can and cannot go. _

_He's thirty one years old. Best-selling author or not, he can - and does - make his own decisions. _

_Gina scowls. "Why, Rick?" Before he can say anything, she laughs, low and bitter. "Oh, I know. You found another one at that bar, didn't you? Another young tramp who's just looking for their fifteen minutes of fame." _

_Rick's mouth drops open. "Gina," he growls, a deep warning. _

_She ignores him completely and just shrugs. "Don't try and tell me I'm wrong. Why are you going back to this woman, what's so special about her?"_

"_You are wrong," he tells her seriously. _

"_A bimbo in a bar isn't going to turn into anything, you know. This is a waste of time, and it's a waste of money." _

_He runs a hand through his hair, trying to keep his emotions in check. He's not surprised she's worried about the money. "First of all, she's not a bimbo," he states, his eyes trained intently on the blonde in front of him. "You don't know her."_

_She quirks an eyebrow. "Ah, Ricky, but I know you." _

"_Do you? Look, Gina, I'm sorry things didn't work out between us," he starts, "I am. But maybe you should remember how we met before you go judging girls in bars." _

_Gina gives him a shocked look, but relents with a sigh. "You care about this one, don't you?" It isn't a question. "Fine, Rick, but you still have a plane to catch." _

"_No," he shakes his head. "You have a plane to catch."_

"_You're really going back." She rolls her eyes._

_He nods. "I am."_

_Gina shakes her head, finally accepting – though reluctantly and unhappily – his decision. "I hope she's worth it." _

_And with that, she grabs her bag and leaves him alone in the room, closing the door with a thud on her way out. _

Yeah, that went just _swell_.

Gina's not a bad person, she really isn't. They were together, after all, so he knows there's something there, beneath the icy cold exterior, that he fell for. She can be incredibly sweet, even funny sometimes, and he knows that deep down she's just trying to do what she thinks is best. But if he's being honest, that's the problem; she does is what she thinks is best not for him, but for his career.

He's grateful for everything she's done to promote the book, promote him in a positive light, which, in turn, skyrockets the sales and provides him with the opportunity to live in the the way he does. He can't thank her enough for that.

But sometimes, much like right now, he has to do what _he_ thinks is best, regardless of whether or not she approves.

He sighs, lifting his head off of the window after a particularly jolting bump in the road.

That's over now; Gina's already on a plane back to New York and he's almost back in town. He begins spotting the familiar sites around him, taking in the buildings and storefronts he passed on his way into Ann Arbor the first time around, as well as a couple he recognizes from his departure a few days ago.

There's something about this particular town that he loves; everyone he's come into contact with is nice, almost sickeningly so, even the robust pool goers - fondly known as _the crew_, he remembers - that he's run into a few times. The small businesses have a certain homey atmosphere to them, and the owners are almost all older, each one too happy to engage in pleasant conversation.

And then, of course, there's Kate.

The woman, the riddle, the mystery. The reason he's not currently on his scheduled flight back home. She's gotten under his skin, without even meaning to, and he can't seem to get her out. Though, he'd be lying to himself if he said he _wanted_ to get her out. He was hooked from the very moment he saw her sitting in Babs, alone, soaked, and miserable; his writer's imagination came up with multiple reasons for her unhappiness, none of which were correct, but somehow he likes his analyses much better.

His stories were less grim, less traumatic than the truth. There was no death, no downward spiral. He originally thought maybe she'd been stood up - though how anyone could stand someone like her up is beyond him - but upon seeing the state she was truly in, he readily nixed that idea.

Now, having had the opportunity to talk to her, to get some more insight, he knows how strong she is. She keeps calling herself a mess, but what he sees is someone who's managed to climb out of a truly dark place and is trying to better herself. For that alone he thinks she's extraordinary, and he wishes she would believe it herself.

He does know one thing for sure, though.

One way or another, he's going to show Kate Beckett just how incredible she really is.

* * *

><p>It takes longer to get to Babs than he anticipated. It seems as though everyone in town is trying to get somewhere in a hurry and the surrounding streets are crowded, making it difficult for the car to get close to his destination. He eventually tells the driver to drop him off a few blocks away, insisting that he's fine to go the rest of the way on his own.<p>

There's no reason for the poor guy to get to the bar, only to have to try and turn around in the state the streets are in. It's much easier to cut him loose now and let the man turn down a side street and get out quickly.

He passes the familiar store windows, waving to an elderly woman named Betty who owns one of the bakeries as he walks by. He makes a mental note to stop back there before he leaves to pick up a few things for-

Actually, no.

A wide grin spreads across his face as he turns on his heels, his feet carrying him back towards the bakery.

"Hello, Betty," he greets the older woman with a warm smile. "How are you today?"

Betty grins, waving her hands in front of her. "I'm excellent, sweetheart. And yourself?"

"Good as ever. Better now that I've seen your pretty face," he tells her, watching as a blush rises to the woman's cheeks.

She's a sweet old lady, probably in her mid sixties, with dark hair, hints of gray popping in. She's almost the polar opposite of his mother, who's eccentric and dramatic to a fault, but there's something about the woman that also reminds him of her. There's a softer, tamer side to Martha Rogers that not many people get to experience, aside from family and close friends, and this woman is the exact embodiment of that.

"Oh, please, you flatter me," the woman chuckles. "What can I do for you, hun?"

Rick peers at the display in front of him and then down to the baked goods that sit behind the glass case. Everything looks delicious and it's practically impossible to choose.

He wants to bring something with him to Babs, something for Kate, but he realizes he has no idea what kind of desserts she likes. He knows she likes chicken parmesan and vodka, but that doesn't exactly help him at the moment.

"What do you recommend, Betty?" he finally asks, unable to come to a definitive decision on his own.

The woman brings her fingers to her chin in thought as she looks over the options.

She smiles and looks back at Rick. "The chocolate fudge brownies always go over splendidly."

He looks down at the brownies in question and she's right, they do look exquisite. His mouth is almost watering just looking at them.

"That's the winner then," he decides happily. "I'll take two, please." Betty begins wrapping up the brownies when he speaks again, hastily. "Wait, make that three! Sorry."

Betty just smiles, waving him off. "No problem at all. Three it is."

He takes the small bag from her once it's all done. "Thanks so much, Betty. I hope to see you again sometime!"

"Likewise, Rick," she reciprocates, giving him a friendly wave as he walks back out into the cold.

Now that he has everything, brownies in hand, he continues his stroll back to the bar.

* * *

><p>Tony is cleaning out a glass behind the bar when he walks in, and he's hit with an emotion he doesn't quite understand. It feels right being there, in the bar. It's a feeling similar to the one he gets when he spends time in his usual go-to spots back home, and it's then that he realizes Babs has become his Old Haunt of Michigan.<p>

He smiles at the thought before making his way to the bar, tapping his fingers against the chilled wood with excitement.

"Rick," Tony greets when he notices the man sit down. "Didn't think you'd be back again."

"And leave without saying goodbye to my new friends? Never."

That's pretty much true. He wasn't about to leave without seeing Kate again, but now that he thinks about it, he's also thrilled that he gets a chance to see Tony again. The older man has become somewhat special to Rick too.

"Well I'm glad," Tony says, his mouth turned into a warm smile, much like Betty's was only moments before. The people in this town are something else. "What can I get you? The usual?"

Rick nods. "That'd be great, thanks."

He pauses for a few seconds, thinking about what he's going to say. He wants to ask if Tony knows where Kate is, if she's said anything, but the man cuts him off before he has a chance.

"She's over there," Tony nods towards the back of the bar, a knowing grin on his face. Rick turns and, sure enough, he sees Kate in one of the booths in the corner. "Take this over, will you?" he asks, sliding a vodka soda in front of him along with his own suburban.

Rick shakes his head with a laugh. "Of course. Thanks, Tony."

He's almost out of the stool when he stops, spins around, and places the drinks back onto the counter top. "Oh!" He removes the bag from under his arm and grabs one of the brownies from it. "Tony," he calls the man over. "Here you go."

Tony looks surprised but takes the offered treat. "Thanks, Rick," he says, and Rick notices the appreciation behind the shock.

He was getting something Kate and himself anyway; it didn't feel right to _not_ get something for Tony as well.

"Don't mention it," he assures the man as he picks the drinks up again and makes his way to the back of the room.

He stops in front of the booth, much like he'd stopped in front of her table the first time he saw her. She's curled in the corner of the booth, knees pulled up to her chest, her face buried in a book. The cover is hidden because of the dim bar lighting, but whatever it is, she's completely absorbed in it. He can't stop the smile that forms at the sight; she looks adorable, completely entranced by what she's reading, so much so that she doesn't even register his presence only a few feet away. He's pretty sure this just makes him like her that much more.

"Hi," he says finally. He doesn't want to disturb her peaceful reading, but he figures making himself known is better than just sitting down unannounced.

She startles, her legs falling from their spot at her chest, and sits up, wide eyes now on him. They seem to soften after a few seconds, and he swears he sees a hint of a smile once she realizes it's him.

"Hi," she says, clearing her voice. She sits up straighter, hurrying to stuff her book into her bag.

Rick smiles. "Oh, here." He slides her drink over to her. "Tony asked me to bring it over."

"Thanks," she says quietly, but her mouth quirks into a small smile. "When did you get back?"

"About an hour ago, give or take."

She hums. "How did your, uh – Janet? – take your leaving?" she asks as she lifts the glass to her mouth.

He doesn't even try to suppress his laughter when she calls her _Janet_. He only wishes the woman in question was there to witness it herself. She hates when people get her name wrong, but he loves it, revels in the tamed anger that explodes once the subject who committed the so called heinous crime is out of sight.

"Gina," he corrects, the amusement still in his voice, "but I think I like Janet better."

Kate nods. "Gina, right. So?"

"She took it exactly how I thought she would," he decides to say.

"That bad?"

Her brows are raised, a somewhat guilty look on her face, and he nods. "A little. But it's okay, she'll get over it."

"I'm sorry-"

"No," he shakes his head. "It's not your fault. It was my decision to come back."

She shrugs. "But still, you came back because of me, and if I had just turned you down-"

"If you had turned me down, I still would've come back, if only to see if I could change your mind one last time." She rolls her eyes, but he can see she's still not completely placated. "I don't give up easily."

"So I've noticed," she huffs, but her eyes betray her, let him know she's not actually annoyed.

There's a silence between the two, both of them working on the drinks in front of him, when Rick remembers the brownies from Betty's bakery.

"Oh!" he exclaims suddenly, holding up a finger, signaling for her to wait. "I come bearing gifts."

She looks at him with interest - confused interest, but interest nonetheless - and her eyes widen slightly when she sees the contents of the little paper bag, sparkling in a way they weren't a few seconds ago.

"A brownie for the lady," he says dramatically, sliding the brownie over to her on a napkin.

She inhales, breathing in the glorious scent of the dessert. "Are these from Betty's?" she asks around the first bite, and he watches as she tries to bite back a satisfied moan.

He just nods, a proud grin on his face, knowing he chose – well, technically _Betty_ chose, but that's not important – the perfect baked good to bring back.

"I take it you like them?" he laughs, taking in the site before him.

She lowers her head slightly, pink rushing to her cheeks. A hand comes up to her brownie-filled mouth, covering it as she nods. "They're my favorite, actually," she admits once she's swallowed the bite. "Thank you."

"Not a problem," he shakes his head, just glad that she seems happier than she had previously.

She looks more refreshed – her hair is straightened and somewhat styled, the dark circles under her eyes are lighter, less prominent, and well, she's smiling.

"So," she starts quietly, hesitantly. "When do you leave?"

"Later today, probably," he sighs. "Mother and Alexis understood when I told them I was coming back a little later, but I should get back to them soon."

Her nose wrinkles. _That's adorable_. "Alexis?" It's obvious she's trying to keep her voice leveled and he thinks he sees a flash of disappointment in her eyes, but it's gone as quickly as it arrived.

Oh. He didn't realize he never mentioned her before. "My daughter," he clarifies, digging into his wallet and pulling out a photo. He hands it to Kate.

Her face brightens up at the photo, and she can't help but smile. The girl in the photo is a tiny thing and looks to be ten at most, fiery red hair framing her face. She's wearing a toothy grin, piercing blue eyes – identical to her father's – staring happily into the camera.

Rick watches her, her reaction, and is pleasantly surprised when her features continue to soften. She looks down at the photo again before turning to him, handing the picture back.

"She's really cute."

He nods, a proud grin on his face. "I think so too."

"How old is she?" she asks, sounding genuinely interested.

"Eight going on thirty," he laughs as he tucks the photo safely back into his wallet. "I swear, she's the one parenting _me_ most of the time."

Kate rolls her eyes with a smile that matches his. "Sounds adorable."

He tells her a bit more about Alexis and then goes into some stories about his mother, the ever so theatric woman who's currently with his daughter. She laughs along with him, enjoying the friendly - and hilarious - tales, as well as the insight into the man who's always plastered over page six. But what she realizes quickly is that he's nothing like how he's portrayed; he doesn't come off as the womanizing playboy, but rather a doting father and a caring man.

A half our turns into an hour, an hour turns into two, and they lapse into a comfortable silence. Rick observes the woman sitting across from him, the sag of her shoulders, the long breaths, and he wonders if the happy face earlier was just a façade for his benefit.

"You okay?"

Her eyes dart up to his as she shakes her head. "What? Yeah, sorry," she nods.

He knows there's more on her mind. "You sure? I'm a good listener, you know," he gives her a comforting smile.

She nods. "Yeah, I'm good," she assures. "I'm just-" She sighs. "Nothing, it's nothing. I'm just tired, it's been a long day."

Rick sighs, wishing she would tell him what's wrong. "Kate-"

"Really, I'm okay," she says, giving him a small smile. "So, you should get going, I guess."

It's not a question, he knows. He thinks maybe she's trying to get rid of him, but her tone says otherwise – she sounds just as excited about him leaving as he is.

He looks down at his phone and bows his head with a dejected nod. It's getting late; not _late_ late, but late enough that if he wants to get a flight back to New York for tonight he has to get going.

"Yeah, probably," he sighs, letting out a heavy breath.

She just nods, doesn't say anything in return, and he wonders what's going on in her mind, what she's thinking.

"It was nice meeting you, Castle," she speaks up, a friendly smile on her face. "And thank you," she adds quietly.

"It was a pleasure, Kate," he says. "Just… remember that I'm always around, okay?"

_It was a pleasure_. He wants to kick himself. There's so much he wants to say, so much he wants her to know. There's so much _he_ wants to know, still. He doesn't want their meeting to end yet; if he's being honest, he doesn't want it to end at all. She's special, and she needs to know that.

He doesn't want to leave her there, alone.

"Come back to New York with me," he blurts out, his mouth working of its own accord.

Kate's eyes are wide, staring at him, her mouth open slightly.

"I," she starts, but closes her mouth. "What?!"

He takes a deep breath. "Come back with me, Kate."

"I- I can't," she stumbles, shaking her head. "No, I can't."

"Why not?" The question came out of his mouth before his brain had a chance to process what he was doing, but now that it was out in the open, he can't - and doesn't want to - turn back.

She hesitates, closing her eyes tightly. "_Because_, Castle, I'm in- I'm in hiding."

He ignores the trepidation in her voice, the waver of her words, and his shoulders sag against the back of the booth.

"They're still looking for you?" he asks, so quietly he's not sure if she can even hear him.

But she does. It takes her a minute to speak, but she finally does, accompanying it with a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Yeah."

He frowns. As much as he wants to take her away from this place, this life that was forced upon her, and take her back where she belongs, he doesn't want to put her in any danger. He would never be able to live with himself.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking," he says, rubbing his hand across his forehead, pushing his hair out of his face.

She shakes her head. "It's okay. Really."

She averts her eyes, refusing to look at him, and he sighs. He figures that was too out of place, too presumptuous and invasive.

_Great job, Rick_.

He gets out of the booth, stretching his back as he stands. He knows he has to say goodbye. Before he does, he slides in next to her and wraps a tentative arm around her shoulder. She stiffens for a second before returning the hug and he breathes in, reveling in the feel of her next to him.

"Kate," he says, making sure she's looking at him this time. "Please call me if you need to. I don't care what time it is. If you need to talk, or cry, or just someone to shut up, listen, and be there- call me, okay?"

She nods. "I will."

"Promise?"

She takes in a shaky breath but nods again. "I promise. Thank you, Castle."

He finally forces himself to leave, fights the urge to turn back and chance one last look at her. He knows if he does, he'll just walk right back to that booth, back to her, and he can't do that. He has to catch a flight back home, back to his daughter and mother.

There is one last thing he's set on doing before he goes to the airport, so he zips up his jacket, braces himself for the rush of brisk air, and heads in the opposite direction of the car service.

* * *

><p>Kate strides into her apartment building two hours later, her footsteps heavy against the tiled flooring of the lobby. Her meeting with Rick went fine, great even, but now he's gone. It's astonishing to her how he managed to get past so many of her defenses in such a short period of time. But he did, somehow, and now that he's gone she feels - she doesn't know how she feels. Exposed? Sad? Both?<p>

She knows he couldn't stay; she knew he wasn't sticking around the moment he told her he was on a book tour. Book tours end, the authors go home – this is no different.

But she finds herself wishing he didn't have to leave, and it's ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. She almost spilled that little detail to him at the end of their conversation when he asked if she was okay, but she just shrugged her silence off as fatigue. Which, in her defense, isn't a complete lie. She _is_ tired.

Plus, it's not like he was going to stay put just because she wants him to. She immediately groans at the thought because she knows it's not true. There's something about this man, something in the way he acts around her, that tells her he _would_ have stayed - if even for an extra day - had she asked. And that is precisely why she couldn't tell him. He has a daughter to go home to, a mother waiting for him, and she can't be the reason he's away from them any longer.

He's Richard Castle; he has no business meandering around in Michigan any longer than necessary. He's a friend now, though – _friend_, that's what he said, and she'll take it. He made her promise to call him if she needs to, and as much as she doesn't want to admit it, she is grateful for the offer and will hold up her end of that deal.

It was sweet, she admits that much.

She shakes her head, effectively shoving thoughts of the author out of her mind. The elevator dings and she steps onto her floor, keys in hand, ready to drop onto her bed – or couch, depending on how far she makes it into the apartment before she collapses.

Her brows scrunch together in confusion as she closes in on her apartment, noticing at least three giant paper bags sitting outside the door. As she nears the objects in question, she catches sight of a small note taped to her door, right above the bags.

_Kate,_

_I know you said it wasn't necessary but I can't, in good conscience, leave with the knowledge that you have no food in your apartment. _

He didn't.

She looks to the bags at her feet and peers inside. Sure enough, they're filled to the brim with groceries.

He did.

_I wasn't sure what you ate, so I took some educated guesses and got a bit of everything. I hope you'll find everything to your liking! If not, well, I saw some neighborhood cats roaming around. I won't be offended if you give it to them. _

She rolls her eyes, not even bothering to keep the grin off of her face at that.

_Now stop reading and go put the food away – we don't want it to go bad before you have a chance to eat it! _

_Enjoy, _

_Rick _

_Ps. Don't be mad at Tony, I made him give me your address. Turns out I'm not the only one concerned about the lack of food at your apartment._

She stuffs the note neatly into her pocket with a shake of her head. _Of course_ he did this. The man is insufferable.

But she doesn't stop smiling, even as she brings the bags into her kitchen and puts the food away – which, she realizes, is all food that she would've bought for herself anyway. How he knew exactly what she liked is beyond her.

She should be irritated that he ignored her when she told him not to do exactly this, but she isn't. She can't bring herself to be mad because it's too nice - _he's_ too nice, too thoughtful.

Instead, she sits herself down at the counter and pulls out her phone to send him a text.

_You're ridiculous_, she sends first, but then adds another one seconds later.

_But thank you_.


	9. Chapter 9

I was kind of blown away by your response to the last chapter, I appreciate you all so much. I hope you enjoy this chapter as well, and I can't wait to hear what you think. Thank you guys!

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><p>The plane ride is uneventful to say the least. He's seated next to an older gentleman - probably a lawyer, he guesses, if the styled hair, overly expensive tailored suit, and brief case sitting at his feet are any indication - who sleeps for nearly the entire trip. For once, he's actually grateful for the sleeping companion, as well as the other quiet passengers surrounding him. Normally he'd be itching to start up a conversation with someone to pass the time, but he's not really in the mood to engage in polite small talk with the other inhabitants of the plane right now.<p>

It's a short ride, two hours tops, and he spends that time alternating between stealing glances past his neighbor and out the window and fiddling with the small compact television situated on the back of seat in front of him. Both actions are done out of habit, his body acting almost on autopilot as his subconscious is somewhere else entirely. He knows, realistically, that Kate wasn't going to come back with him. But that doesn't mean there still wasn't a part of him, deep down, that thought _maybe,_ just maybe, she would.

He sighs as he looks down at Mr. Lawyer, desperately wishing it was Kate curled up on the seat next to him, her head lulling against his shoulder as she falls asleep. He can imagine her hair tumbling over to cover her face, the small puffs of air pushing it away with every breath she takes. He shakes his head, willing himself to stop this line of thought before it can go any further.

It's his own fault for letting that small sliver of hope make its way to the surface.

The rest of the time passes fairly quickly - time he finds himself thinking of Kate, even though he explicitly told himself not to - and he's now making his way down to baggage claim, where he'll be waiting patiently for his bag to appear on the conveyor belt. Suitcase after suitcase goes by, none belonging to him, and he sighs, wondering if the airline lost his luggage. It wouldn't be the first time it's happened to him, unfortunately, though it would be the first time it's happened when he's returned home. Every other time they've lost - or simply _misplaced_, as they like to tell him - his luggage, it's been while he was traveling. The process is a pain in any situation, but he's found that it's exponentially worse when you have meetings, press conferences, and book signings to attend, and no acceptable clothes to wear to them.

His bag - a simple black suitcase adorned with a bright orange ribbon tied to the handle, courtesy of Alexis - finally rounds the corner and he grabs it in one swift motion, picking it up off the belt. He steps back until he's out of the way of the others still trying to get their bags and finds a spot a few feet away. He leans against the wall for a minute, taking the time to check his phone. It's been turned off since just after he boarded the plane and he wants to make sure his mother hasn't tried to call him. She's known to call and leave messages, informing him of something that needs to be picked up on his way back to the loft.

There was one time he didn't check his phone because he just wanted to get back home quickly. It was also the one time his mother decided she was in desperate need of some dozen eggs - it was a baking fiasco that is never to be repeated - and was highly exasperated when he came home, eggless.

He makes sure to check his phone every time now.

The device in question buzzes a few times in his hands, alerting him of the texts and messages he's received while it was turned off. A few are from his mother, mostly checking to make sure he made his plane on time, and then there's two from-

Oh.

There are two from Kate.

He opens them hesitantly, hoping she isn't too mad about the groceries he left in front of her door. She told him that she was fine, that she didn't need or want any, but he begs to differ. He couldn't leave without making sure she had _something_ to eat in the apartment.

_You're ridiculous_ is the first one, and he lets out a lighthearted laugh, choosing to believe that it was meant to be taken in a playful manner.

He feels more confident in his assertion when he reads the second message: _But thank you_.

His face lights up, a broad smile splitting across his face as he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. She's not mad, and that's all he needs to know. He starts typing out a reply, the grin not leaving his face even after he sends it.

_It's my pleasure, Kate_.

* * *

><p>He hears the padding of small feet above him mere seconds after he steps into the loft. He closes the door, and as expected, a flash of blurry red hair comes bounding down the stairs.<p>

"Daddy!" Alexis squeals as she collides into his legs, wrapping her arms around his waist.

He returns the hug with a tight squeeze around her back, lifting her off the ground. "Hey, pumpkin! I missed you so much!"

The redhead looks up at him with a bright smile. "I missed you too!"

"Where's grams?" he asks as he shimmies out of his coat and turns around to hang it up on one of the hooks near the front door.

Before Alexis can answer, he catches a glimpse of his mother strolling out of the living room. "She's right here, darling," she drawls, arms open wide as she embraces her son.

"I'm glad to see the loft is still in one piece, mother," he laughs, ignoring the eye roll he gets in return.

"Yee of little faith, Richard," she waves her hands around dismissively, but grins in his direction. "Good to have you back, kiddo."

"It's good to be back," he says sincerely.

He wraps his arm around his daughter's shoulder, ushering the three of them into the other room. The bag with his gifts for them is hanging off of his arm and he can see Alexis eyeing it carefully, a silent look of insistence in her gaze.

Rick laughs. "Yes, these are for you."

Alexis looks almost embarrassed, quickly averting her stare. "I wasn't-"

"It's okay," he says, nodding towards the bag. "Here, open it."

She opens the bag slowly, careful not to rip any of the wrapping. She's always been a strategic gift opener, even as a child, while he, on the other hand, tears into them at a surprising speed. He knows the moment she registers what the souvenir is; her eyes go wide with excitement, a smile playing on her face.

She takes the book out of the shrink wrap it's encased in and reads over the front and back covers, and then she's clutching it tightly to her chest.

"Thank you!" Alexis lets out a satisfied squeal before giving her father another hug.

He smiles at her, keeping her close to him for a few more minutes, before she informs him that she has to go upstairs to get ready for bed. The watch on his wrist is telling him that it's just after nine, roughly fifteen minutes before his daughter's usual bedtime.

"But dear old dad just got home," he persuades, using the best feigned hurt look he can manage. "You could stay up a little later tonight, Pumpkin."

Alexis looks at him, a hint of shock in her eyes. "Dad," she says, her arms crossed in front of her disapprovingly. "We talked about this."

Rick laughs loudly. "I know, I know. Go get ready for bed. I'll be up in a little bit."

Once she's upstairs, he shakes his head with a grin. He doesn't know where she gets it, but his child is more strict about her own bedtime than he is. He tries to get her to stay up later sometimes, but she refuses, telling him that she needs to be up early for school. The girl is something else, that's for sure, but he wouldn't change a thing.

"So, kiddo," his mother starts as she moves to sit across from him on the couch, "Anything interesting happen on tour?"

He doesn't answer right away and wonders if he should tell his mother about Kate. Not all of the details, of course, because it's not his place to spread those, but just the general gist of what happened. It seems his silence is answer enough, though, and now she's looking at him, questions evident in her eyes.

"Alright, Richard, what is it?" she asks, eyebrows raised. "And don't tell me it's nothing. I'm your mother, I _know_." She brings up one of her hands and uses a finger to point to her head.

He sighs. "I met a woman in Ann Arbor."

"You didn't get drunk and marry the girl, did you?"

His eyes widen and he scrunches his face in confusion. "What? No!"

Unfazed, she just shrugs. "It's happened before."

"Not to me," he assures her, "And I'm pretty sure that happens in Vegas, not Michigan."

"Drunken weddings happen everywhere, Richard," she reminds, pointedly waving her arm around for emphasis.

He shakes his head, having absolutely no desire to venture deeper into that conversation. He knows his mother has a rather… _interesting_ past, but he does not want to find out more about it right now.

"So what about this woman, then?" she prods further, dropping the drunk wedding angle.

He rakes a hand through his hair. "I don't know." When she eyes his suspiciously, he goes on. "Really, I don't know. She's different, mother."

"How so?"

"She has a dark past. Things have happened to her, things no one should have to deal with, and now she's in Michigan trying to pick up the pieces," he sighs, taking a breath. "But she's incredible. She's gone through so much, but she's managed to pull herself out of that hole and slowly get herself back on her feet. The thing is, I can tell she doesn't think she's worth it."

Martha shakes her head. "That poor girl."

"Yeah," he nods. "But she's so strong. I can see it, I just wish she could."

"Sometimes people need a little encouraging to see what's right in front of them, dear."

He looks at his mother, sometimes forgetting how wise she can be. She may be dramatic, theatrical beyond belief, but she always gives good advice when it's needed.

"That's what I'm trying to do, but I don't want to push too hard, you know?" She nods, patting his knee. "She's stunning, too. One of the most beautiful women I've ever seen," he says with a small smile, looking to his mother. "After you, of course, mother."

She grins. "You know it, kid," she winks. "It sounds like you think this girl is something special."

"I do," he replies immediately. "There's just something about her, mother. I've never met anyone like her before."

Martha hums. "You care about her."

It isn't a question, but he finds himself inclined to answer anyway. "I- Yeah, I do."

She nods. "Then work with her, Richard. At her pace," she tells him as she stands from her spot on the couch. "Let her know you're there for her. Sometimes, that's all someone really needs to know."

Rick nods at his mother before she walks away, leaving him alone in the living room.

His mother's right. He cares about Kate, as crazy as it may be considering the short period of time they've known each other, and he does find her extremely special. She's unlike any other girl – woman – that he's met, and that's part of what he likes about her. He doesn't like knowing how wounded she is, but he's more than willing to help her through it, to talk her through anything she needs.

He smiles, chuckling lightly to himself. Mother really _is_ helpful sometimes. She watched Alexis, didn't burn down the loft, and talked to him about Kate, giving him some pretty good words of wisdom without any judgement. She's good at that, he's learned - she doesn't judge someone's situation, no matter how bad it may seem. He knows she herself has been in some sticky situations, and he admires her for getting both of them through the rough patches on her own.

He'll take all of her advice into account when he talks to Kate next, which he hopes will be soon. Maybe this will help her open up, even a tiny bit more, and she'll continue to let him in.

It's a few minutes before he finally forces himself off the couch. He makes his way upstairs to say goodnight to Alexis and then slides into his room, changing into a pair of sweatpants before all but jumping underneath his blankets.

* * *

><p>He wakes up early and strides into the kitchen to make breakfast, his hands rubbing at his sleep ridden face. He's the first one up, which isn't all that surprising considering the time. He usually wouldn't even be awake yet, not for another two hours at least, but he couldn't seem to get back to sleep once he woke up.<p>

There's fresh coffee brewing next to him and he grabs a mug out of the cupboard for himself, then pulls out a second one and places it to the side for his mother, who he knows will be coming around eventually. She has her own place, but still stops by for breakfast every morning.

Well, most mornings. When she's too exhausted from a late night out or doing the walk of shame – he shudders at the thought – she stays home.

He hums quietly to himself as he flips the pancakes, piling the acceptable ones on the plate next to him. It's almost 8:00 now and he knows Alexis should be waking up soon, so he takes out the orange juice, placing it on the counter next to the pancakes, along with the maple syrup.

As if on cue, he hears footsteps and sees Alexis making her way down the stairs, a hand covering her mouth as she stifles a yawn.

"Morning, pumpkin," he greets with a smile, waving the spatula in his hand.

"Morning, dad," she replies as she settles into one of the stools at the island, sleepily rubbing at her eyes. "Pancakes?"

He nods. "And bacon," he states, putting two pancakes and a couple pieces of bacon onto a plate for her.

"Thank you," she mumbles around a mouthful of pancake.

He pours a glass of orange juice for his daughter as well and places it in front of her, laughing when she drinks more than half of it in one shot.

"So, what do you want to do today?" he asks, leaning against the counter. He wipes his hands with the towel he's holding before folding it and throwing it across his shoulder.

Alexis pauses, thinking thoughtfully as she chews her food. He sees a small grin hiding in her features, but she tries to suppress it. He knows that look; it's the look she uses when she knows what she wants to do but is nervous about asking him.

"Well…" she starts quietly, taking another bite of bacon.

He nods encouragingly. "Go on."

She's about to continue talking when the front door swings open and Martha bounds through, gesturing happily. "Good morning, kiddos!"

"Morning, mother!"

"Hi, grams!"

Martha rounds the island and picks up a plate while Rick puts some pancakes and bacon on it for her. She goes to grab the coffee mug and he shakes his head, nodding to the stool next to Alexis.

"Sit, I'll get it."

She runs her hand along his shoulder in appreciation. "Thank you, Richard."

"Alexis, what were you saying?" he continues as he makes his mother her coffee.

Her eyes light up again and she puts her fork down, taking a drink of juice before she starts. "Well, some of the older kids at school were talking about a new exhibit at the museum about Ancient Egypt, and I thought…"

"You want to go?"

She nods furiously, a wide smile breaking out on her face. "We're learning about Egypt in history and it's really interesting!"

She sounds so excited about this, and while he doesn't find these things necessarily quite as exciting as his daughter does, he's more than willing to take her. They've gone to a bunch of exhibits before and they always have a blast. His favorite to date is the dinosaur exhibit he took her to when she was six. They spent the majority of the time running around pretending to be dinosaurs themselves, and while the museum staff wasn't as appreciative of the shenanigans, the two of them sure were.

"Okay then," he says, leaning closer to her on the island. "How about we go after you finish eating and get dressed?"

Alexis is bouncing now, red hair falling into her face as she rushes to finish her breakfast.

"Hey, hey, slow down," he laughs. "The museum will still be there when you're done, and it'll be a lot more fun if you don't choke on your pancake first."

She looks down sheepishly but slows her pace. When she's finished she puts her dish in the sink and races up the stairs to get changed, leaving Rick and Martha in the kitchen.

"Care to join us, mother?"

Martha finishes off her coffee and gracefully declines. "I'll pass, darling. I have some stage meetings in a few hours, anyway."

Rick nods. "Suit yourself," he shrugs playfully, knowing how disinterested in the Metropolitan Museum of Art his mother actually is.

He picks at the bacon on the stove as he waits for Alexis, who comes stumbling down the stairs a few minutes later in jeans, a long sleeve purple shirt, and her hair swinging in a pony tail.

"I'm ready!" she announces, grinning at her father.

He laughs and leads her to the door, helping her slide into her coat and put on her hat before he puts on his own.

"Your chariot awaits, madam," he bows to the open door and follows a giggling Alexis to the car.

* * *

><p>Rick has to admit that he enjoys the museum much more than he thought he would, if only because of Alexis' enthusiasm. She's running around the exhibit, stopping in front of every painting so she can read the plaque that accompanies it and fully take in the piece of art. He stands close to her, reading along as well, and he actually does find much of the information fascinating.<p>

Alexis is beaming with each new piece of information she learns and Rick can't help the pride that swells up in his chest. She's such an intelligent kid, interested in the histories of ancient cultures at such a young age, and he loves that about her.

After about three hours he notices how her shoulders are sagging ever so slightly and the bounce in her step has become more of a drag. She insists that she isn't getting worn out, but he can tell otherwise. He knows his daughter, knows her limits, even though she doesn't like to admit to it.

He doesn't blame her though – several hours wandering around a new exhibit, without stopping for the most part, will tire anyone out.

She finally agrees to leave, after lingering to read a few more pieces along the way, and he senses that she's not thrilled about having to go.

"I didn't get to read them all," she sighs, looking down at her feet as she walks.

"There are hundreds of paintings, sweetheart. Even if we left later, we wouldn't have time to see _all_ of them."

He wraps his arms around her shoulders as they make their way out of the building. "Tell you what, next weekend we'll come back and you can look at more of them. How's that?"

Alexis smiles up at him. "Really? Thank you, thank you!" she squeals, hugging his waist tighter.

They decide to get ice cream before they head back to the loft, more to Rick's insistence than Alexis', but they both get their usual anyway - chocolate for Alexis and a mix of chocolate and vanilla for Rick, topped with sprinkles, chocolate chips, Oreo pieces, and both gummy worms and gummy bears.

"That's gross, dad," Alexis comments, scrunching her nose at his choice of ice cream.

Rick brings his hand up to his heart, feigning hurt. "I take offense to that." Alexis shrugs her shoulders. "This is a masterpiece in the form of a cold dessert."

His daughter laughs as she takes a spoonful of her own, much tamer, ice cream. "Call it whatever you want, but your _masterpiece_ is still gross."

He grabs a spoonful of his ice cream concoction and shoves it towards her in retaliation, trying to get her to open her mouth. She squeals and squirms out of his reach, running to the front door of the building, and he hears her telling Eduardo to watch out for him because he has a "weapon of disgusting proportions" in his hands.

Laughter bubbles out of him at that as he catches the door, waving to the man before joining Alexis in the elevator.

The loft is empty when they return, Martha having left soon after them to get to her stage meetings. Rick puts the rest of his ice cream in the freezer for later and Alexis runs up the stairs, muttering something about having to finish some of her homework.

He decides to relax for a bit before he has to begin filtering through some of the hundreds of emails he's gotten over the past week.

His body sinks into the couch the second he plops down on the cushions and a contented sigh leaves his throat as he props his legs up on the coffee table. It really is good to be home.


	10. Chapter 10

Thank you all for your thoughtful comments, they really mean a lot! Hope you enjoy, and I look forward to hearing what you think.

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><p>It's been a few days since he's heard from her.<p>

Well, her voice, anyway. They've been texting on and off throughout the day for the past week since he's been home, but he hasn't talked to her on the phone in a couple of days.

They've been steering clear of any topics that are too serious, too deep, and staying in the route of more general, easy going conversations instead. He wants to hear more about her, her life, what's happened to her, but right now they're steadily building up their friendship and he doesn't want to push too hard too fast. He's quickly understanding that he has to be be very careful when picking a course of action; know when to push, know when to back off, and don't risk her pulling away.

She's like a rubber band; pull too hard and it snaps, breaks apart. He doesn't want her to break.

It's still early, the morning sun peeking through the windows and illuminating everything in a soft, golden glow. He's been awake for a few hours, again having gotten up much earlier than he normally would; he doesn't know why he keeps waking up earlier and earlier with each passing day, but he chooses to attribute it to the travel doing odd things to his sleep schedule. It's happened before, so it wouldn't be the first time the exhaustion and long hours took a toll on his body. He doesn't, however, admit that his inability to sleep all night probably has something to do with the girl with the chestnut hair and piercing hazel eyes.

He's been sitting in his study for the past hour, his third cup of coffee sitting next to him, trying desperately to get a few more chapters out to send to Gina – _fire ants, Rick _– when his phone buzzes. A smile breaks out on his face when he sees her name light up across the screen.

"Well hello there," he answers happily, significantly more upbeat than he was a few seconds ago.

She lets out an amused puff of air. "Someone's in a good mood."

"You just saved me from my uncooperative muse, I'm great," he smirks, moving the laptop off of his legs and onto his desk.

He can hear silent breathing on the other end.

"You were writing," she says, a statement rather than a question. "I'm sorry, I should let you-"

He shakes his head. "Kate, please. I should be thanking you for calling."

"You should be thanking me for interrupting your work?"

"Yes," he tells her firmly.

She huffs. "And why is that?"

"Because, you see, I was about three seconds away from sending a less than pleasant, highly sarcastic email to my publisher with a picture of fire ants." He ignores her noise of confusion. "It's a long story. So, therefore, you saved me from what would have likely been a catastrophic fallout."

"Well I'm glad I could save you from the wrath of your publisher, then," she lets out a small laugh.

He moves out of his study and into the kitchen, easily sliding around the island to grab himself a glass of water. The piece of cake in the fridge is tempting him, practically calling his name, so he shoves a few items to the side and takes it out, putting it on a plate.

"How are you doing?" he asks, phone clutched tightly between his chin and shoulder as he tries to carry the plate and glass without dropping either.

A pause. "I'm good," she says, and it's those few seconds of silence that leave him to believe there's more to the truth than what's being said. "How are you?"

She's quick to defer the question onto him, to avoid elaborating on her own answer, but he doesn't comment. She called, and if she just wants to have a pleasant conversation, then he can do that.

He's more than happy to do that. Just hearing her voice is enough for him.

"I've just been writing," he says, shrugging to himself. "Or, trying to, at least. Other than that, it's pretty much business as usual. I took Alexis to The Met the other day."

"I used to love going there as a kid," Kate tells him, divulging yet another piece of information to him. He can hear the smile in her voice and wishes she was there, with him, so he could take in the beauty of her smile in person. "I bet you guys had fun."

He nods. "Alexis loves it," he grins. "It was a new exhibit on Ancient Egypt. She ran around the whole place, just soaking it all in. She got upset that she couldn't read all of them in the three hours we were there. I had to practically drag her out."

She laughs on the other end, quiet and natural and just like her. "That's adorable."

"Were you and your parents as excited about the exhibits when you were little?"

He hears her sharp intake of breath and suddenly worries that he's just asked too personal a question.

_Good job, Rick_. She's trying to forget and move forward, distance herself from her disastrous past, and he's just now realizing that she hasn't exactly talked about her parents with him. Maybe this brings up too many memories, memories she's trying to forget. He wasn't thinking, he shouldn't have asked-

"I was," she admits, cutting into his thoughts. The lack of sadness in her voice lets him release the breath he's been holding. "We were. My parents would take me to the interactive exhibits on the weekends. I'd run wild. I got lost in my fair share of exhibits, actually. I was a handful."

She lets out a wistful chuckle, as if she's remembering specific moments, reliving them, and his heart swells at the sound.

He's picturing a young Kate, petite and full of energy, zipping through the halls of The Met, and he smiles. He has no doubt that she was adorable, because how could she not have been, and it makes him wonder what she actually looked like at that age. Did she have long hair? Short hair? Was she short? Tall? He imagines that the general consensus would be tall, given her height now, but he's inclined to believe the opposite. He bets she was just a tiny little one, smaller than most of her classmates, before shooting up like a sprout once she hit a certain age. Did she have braces? Glasses? There are so many things he wants to know about her, about what she was like before she was forced to grow up all too soon, but he doesn't think it's the right time to ask.

The questions are stored in his brain, though, locked away until it's appropriate to find out the answers.

"I'm sure your parents loved that," he laughs.

She snorts. "They threatened to make me wear a bell on more than one occasion so they'd know where I was."

He's laughing now, shaking his head at the mental image. "How'd that end?"

"Never really panned out," she shrugs.

He takes a chance and asks her another question about her childhood but she just gives a noncommittal noise in response, and he takes that as a cue to change the subject. "So, what are you doing today?"

"Not too sure. I might head down to Babs, see how Tony's doing," she sighs. She doesn't exactly have anything planned; there's not too much to do in Ann Arbor if you aren't a tourist or a college kid perusing the town in between classes.

"Tell Tony I said hi, would you?"

"I will," she agrees. "Looks like you've got a few new fans here in Ann Arbor."

"Tony?" he asks, his interest piqued.

The older man admitted that he hasn't read any of his books since he's too busy with the bar - which is absolutely understandable, and Rick doesn't mind that he hasn't read any of his works.

But wait-

She said _fans_, didn't she? Plural.

She hums. "Yeah, he asks me how you're doing every so often." She rolls her eyes. Tony's been asking how Castle is, and she knows that it's just his clever way of finding out if she's still talking to him. "And the pool crew, of course. Heard Nikita talking about your figure skating debut."

"Oh no," he groans. He wasn't _awful_, but by no means does he think he'll be winning an Olympic medal anytime soon for his performance.

"Don't worry, Castle, you don't come off looking all that bad." She pauses, bringing a hand to cover her mouth, just barely suppressing the amused laughter that's itching to bubble out of her. "Maybe a bit like bambi on ice, but..."

He grimaces jokingly, thoroughly appreciating the visual she's set up for him. As horrid as it sounds, he's fairly certain that's _exactly_ what he looked like on the ice.

He can see it now.

Richard Castle, starring in a new live show: Bambi on Ice. The headlines practically write themselves.

* * *

><p>Kate sits in her apartment, the television on in the background to provide something to listen to other than the deafening silence.<p>

She went to Babs earlier and talked to Tony, who she's slowly but surely been opening up to. He's a friendly older man and she sees no reason not to talk to him, engage in some nice conversation, maybe drop a few breadcrumbs of information about her life. He does the same, telling her about his wife - who's a few years younger than him - and how they were high school sweethearts. That's too adorable, she thinks; she's glad they've managed to stay together after all these years. She asked him why she's never seen her, why she doesn't come around the bar too often, and he said it's because she works at the local school and spends most of her time prepping for classes and working with her students. She sounds like a nice woman, and hopefully she'll get to meet her someday.

She had a few drinks; nothing too hard, and not more than two.

But that was all a few hours ago and now she's at a loss.

The couch is inviting, the cushions calling out to her, begging and pleading with her to sit down, take a nap, but she doesn't. She can't. The nightmares have been coming back, haunting her while she sleeps and ripping her from her unconscious state. She hasn't taken a nap since they've reappeared and she doesn't plan on breaking that pattern today.

So she stays up, follows the same default response every time this happens.

It's getting better, slowly, even if it may not seem like it is at the time. A month ago she would be running to the bar, downing drink after drink until she can't physically remember enough to care about the nightmares. As tempting as that complete oblivion is, she doesn't return to it.

She's past that.

The only problem with this new tactic is that now she needs to find another way to deal with the nightmares, to keep her mind occupied long enough for her to get a few hours of uninterrupted rest.

She sighs, rubbing her hands over her tired, sunken eyes, and stands from her spot in the armchair. The apartment isn't atrocious; there's no garbage covering her floors or dust bunnies rolling around, but she cleans anyway. It's something to do, a way to keep herself busy and awake, and so like anything else she does, she goes at it full force.

There's a bucket next to her as she kneels on the kitchen floor, bony knees digging into the hard surface. She ignores the pain that settles in her joints as she stays in the position and just grabs a sponge, doing her best to wash away the dirt along with the tormenting images of the nightmares.

She has a mop, has a swiffer, but she doesn't use them. That'd be too quick, wouldn't occupy her in the way she needs.

The floors are scrubbed, the garbage is taken out, the pyramid of takeout containers from who knows when are thrown out, and she scrubs down all of the surfaces in her immediate vicinity. She even goes as far as to wash the windows - twice - to make sure there aren't any streaks running down them. The bathroom is now spotless and under any other circumstances she'd be proud of her work; the tiled floors are sparkling enough to eat off of - she won't, of course - and the mirror is clear as day, highlighting the worn out features of her face in extreme high definition.

_Great_.

She takes a second to glance at the reflection, wincing faintly at the sight in front of her.

It's not as awful as it was previously, though, so she can't really complain. The bags under her eyes are marginally more prominent only because of the lack of sleep, but she isn't as pale, doesn't look as rough and zombie-like as she has in the past. She takes this as progress.

_It takes time_, she tells herself over and over again, the mantra slowly losing meaning with every use.

But she sticks with it, regardless.

She knows it's for the best, knows that if she wants to get her life back to a state that she's content with, then this is what she has to do. It'll be hard - hell, it _is_ hard - but she's a fighter. Always has been, always will be. It wasn't as clear for a while; there was a gray area when she just wanted to throw in the towel, when she could've potentially went either way, but somewhere deep down, beneath the pain and the despair, it was still there. Her formidable nature, floating in the background of the darkness, giving her surges of strength when she needed it most.

This is just another fight.

And it's one she's determined to win.

She knows she's lost more weight - again - because despite all of the groceries Castle bought her last week, she can't bring herself to make proper meals. She started off strong, making fresh salads and sandwiches every day, but then she stopped, the motivation slowly evaporating into nothing. That's her own fault, she knows, but she plans on fixing it. She'll start back up tomorrow.

She will. She has to.

_People are going to notice, Kate_, she whispers to herself almost daily, but they don't. And if they do, they - graciously - don't say anything. She gets looks from people she's known for a while, people who know just how much weight she's lost, but the stares are as far as they go. It's a sensitive subject in general and she's thankful for that, in a sick kind of way, because she's fairly certain that's the only reason why no one says anything.

When there's nothing left that can possibly be cleaned she finally stops, puts away all of the supplies, and makes her way to her bedroom.

It's getting late, late enough that she should realistically be heading to bed now, but she just stares at the bed, a frown on her face. She's tired, damn near exhausted, but she knows the odds of a peaceful sleep are not in her favor. Why even try when she know she'll, more likely than not, just be woken up? It's a waste, and it's annoying to deal with.

She's angry at herself, as if it's her own fault that they're back. They died down for a while and it was beautiful, the nights filled with a blissful slumber, but she should've known it wouldn't last. Funnily enough, the days they ceased were the days Castle was in town and the two days after he left and they talked on the phone.

She shakes her head, willing herself to believe that it was just the distraction of the phone call that helped and not actually _him_.

Her dresser drawers are being opened and closed as she searches for something to put on, her forehead creased in lingering frustration. She finally just grabs a pair of pajama pants and a white t-shirt, discarding her current clothes as she changes into what she's just taken out. She practically moans as the soft cotton glides over her skin, a stark contrast to the feel of the jeans and sweater she was previously wearing.

There's something about changing into pajamas at the end of the day that's so inexplicably satisfying.

Her blankets welcome her, envelop her in a cocoon of warmth as she curls beneath them, pulling the edges of the comforter up to her shoulders. She rolls onto her side and switches off the light, but she doesn't close her eyes. Instead, she lays in the darkness, eyes peeled open as she fights the fatigue.

But eventually sleeps wins out, coaxing her into a land of dreams.

* * *

><p>She's jolted awake a few hours later, her body coated in a thin layer of sweat despite the frigid chill of the room. Her breathing is ragged and coming in short and choppy bursts as she runs her hands over her face. She keeps them there for a few seconds, her body completely still in the sheets.<p>

_Just breathe_.

In, out. In, out.

She takes a few deep breaths, effectively bringing her heart rate back down and calming herself in the process.

This is getting ridiculous. She can't deal with these nightmares anymore, pulling her from her sleep in the middle of the night, waking her in a state of panic and sweat. The irritation alone is enough to bring her to tears but she blinks them away, refusing to give them that power over her this time.

This was one of the more unpleasant nightmares; they're becoming more rare, more spaced out in their occurrence, but when they _do_ come back, they're brutal.

She screws her eyes shut and the images flood back, one after another, grainy like a bad drive-in movie screen. It's the alleyway, tinges of red congregating into a puddle on the ground and on the body laying in it, lifeless eyes staring back at her. Eyes that look so much like her own. No matter what she does she can't shake that mental picture; it's ingrained in her mind, a stamp, a tattoo that she didn't ask for, that she doesn't want.

"Pull yourself together," she whispers to herself in the empty room, nothing but pitch black surrounding her.

It's eerily quiet; no sirens outside, no pedestrians wandering the streets, no car horns blaring.

She needs a distraction, something to focus on.

She knows one thing that's proved to help keep the nightmares at bay, but she's hesitant. It's almost four in the morning; it's by no means an acceptable hour to be awake, let alone call and possibly wake someone else up.

But he made her promise to call if she needs anything.

As much as she'd like to ignore it, pretend she doesn't actually need anything, she promised him. And Kate Beckett doesn't go back on her promises.

She fumbles for her phone - which is still sitting on her nightstand from earlier - and grabs it with trembling fingers. She squints immediately upon opening the phone, the bright light blinding her, making it almost impossible to see the screen.

His number is there, illuminating in the otherwise complete darkness, taunting her, pleading with her to just _call him_.

So she does.

It rings a few times without an answer and it dawns on her that he's most likely asleep - _of course he's asleep _- and she's already kicking herself for assuming he might be awake, for even calling him at all. She's about to hang up and figure out a solution on her own-

But then he answers.

"Kate?" His voice is dripping with concern, the emotion evident even through the gritty, sleep ridden tone. That alone tells her that she's woken him up.

_Stupid_. Stupid, Kate.

"I'm sorry," she says immediately, her voice wavering as she suddenly doubts her decision to call him. "Go back to sleep."

He clears his throat. "I'm awake." It's clearly a lie, but her lips quirk upwards at his attempt nonetheless. "Are you okay?"

She doesn't answer, just bites her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Another nightmare?" he asks quietly, knowingly.

Bless this man for figuring it out, for not making her say it out loud, for understanding.

"Yeah," she whispers.

He waits a few seconds. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," she shakes her head, the movement pointless since he can't see it. "Can you just..."

"What is it?"

She sighs. "Can you- will you just... stay on the line with me? I mean, it's just, the sound of- it helps-"

She doesn't know how to get it out. How do you say _the sound of your voice is ridiculously comforting for reasons I don't understand and I need it to help me sleep _without sounding too needy or clingy? Is there a way? If there is, she sure as hell doesn't know what it is. She isn't good at this - asking for help, expressing her need for help in a way that doesn't make her regret it the moment it leaves her mouth.

"Of course," he cuts her off, seems to understand what she needs, and someone give his man a medal already. His voice is genuine, no hints of judgement present, but that's exactly what she's come to expect from him. "Whatever you need."

"Thank you," she murmurs quietly on an exhale.

She hears him yawn over the receiver, prompting one of her own. "Goodnight, Kate."

"Goodnight."

He's still on the line when she removes the phone from her ear and places it on the bed next to her pillow. It's on speaker now and she can hear the sound of his breathing clearly, the constant rhythm just the lullaby she needed to hear. She hears him whispering comforting words and phrases every so often and it pulls her under even more, his deep voice soothing her aching body from the inside out.

The words trail off and his breathing evens out, letting her known he's fallen back asleep. She just listens for a while, her eyes closed still, soaking in the comfort she gains from such a simple act.

Sleep consumes her once again, the sound of his steady breathing lulling her into the delightful paradise of the unconscious.

Nightmares don't wake her up again that night.


	11. Chapter 11

As usual, I'm super grateful to all of you for reading and reviewing! And to those of you who review on guest, or have your PMs disabled so I can't reply personally, a big thank you to you too.

* * *

><p>The week passes by slowly; Alexis goes to school, his mother stops by the loft often, and he continues to write as much as he can when the inspiration strikes. Gina's past the empty threats of throwing him into a pit of fire ants and has moved on to - probably less empty - threats of telling Black Pawn, his publishing agency, that he hasn't been writing. Which, to his credit, is a lie. He <em>has<em> been writing; he's _still_ writing, he just can't seem to get the words to flow in the way that he knows they should, in the way he knows they can. He gets words onto the page, sure, but then he finds himself dissatisfied with what he's doing and scraps it, restarts.

He decides to take a break, knowing all too well that staring at a blank word document is not going to make the chapter write itself any quicker. If anything, it'll just irritate him.

He's been talking to Kate more regularly, whether it's through text or phone calls, and he can feel her slowly getting more comfortable. It's not an everyday thing, not yet, but it's enough for now. They've gotten closer, he thinks, ever since she called him that night. The second he saw her name light up his screen he knew exactly what was going on. Or, at least, he was fairly certain that he knew. Considering the time, it was either a nightmare or... well, he's not really sure what else would warrant her calling him that late - early? - unless it was, god forbid, something much worse.

Knowing that she trusted him enough to even call made his heart well up. She was quiet, tripping over her words in a way that, given any other circumstances, he would've found absolutely adorable. But with her shallow breathing and the break in her exhausted, worn out voice, the only thing he could feel was pain. That she had to deal with the nightmares, that _she_ was in pain, that he could do nothing for her but stay on the line.

It doesn't escape him that she didn't actually tell him what was wrong. He had asked her, tentatively and quietly, and the sigh of relief she exhaled let him know that his intuition was right. It also clued him in on just how thankful she was that he didn't make her say it, didn't make her ask.

He knows, now, that Kate Beckett doesn't like asking for help. Whether it's because she thinks she shouldn't ask or because she simply doesn't _want_ to need the help, he isn't sure. The latter seems to be the more likely option, although he believes it's a mix of the two, somewhere between her knowing she needs the help but not wanting it, and not wanting to ask for it either.

It's a lose, lose situation if he's ever heard one.

That was a week ago, and though it's helped provide some leeway in their ever growing friendship, they've been treading lightly on that particular discussion. He's sure she's still having the nightmares, since he doubts they'd have gone away so quickly, and he just hopes they're decreasing in discomfort. He wishes he was there with her, or she was there with him, so he could comfort her in person, wrap her in his arms and just hold her until the images subside.

But she's not and he can't.

He doesn't even know if they've reached a point where he can do that yet.

As much as he wants to see her again, wants to make sure she's okay, he knows her safety comes first and he more than respects that. Just being able to hear her voice makes it worth it, knowing that he has some form of connection to her.

It may not seem like much, and she probably doesn't even think that she's giving him anything, but her friendship means more to him than she knows.

So he'll take anything he can get; he'll work with her at her pace, as per his mother's advice, and he can only hope that they'll continue to move forward.

* * *

><p>He's sitting at the island with a cup of coffee and a bowl of grapes when Alexis comes bounding through the door, her school bag discarded by the entryway within mere seconds.<p>

"Dad!"

She slams into his side, eliciting a dramatic _oomph_ from her father. "Well hello to you too, pumpkin," he laughs, slinging an arm around her.

"It's Friday!" she practically squeals, a wide grin threatening to split her face in two.

He nods. "Indeed it is."

"Do you know what that means?"

She's attached to his side, her eyes looking up at him expectantly. It takes him all of three seconds for it to dawn on him as to why she's so excited, but he doesn't let it show.

He hums thoughtfully. "Yes. That tomorrow's Saturday."

Alexis pulls back to narrow her eyes at him, small arms crossed in front of her, a frown on her face. "No, dad! You forgot, didn't you?"

He chuckles and pulls her back towards him. "No, Alexis," he promises. "Of course I didn't forget. The museum, I know."

She's bouncing on her feet, the frown disappearing from her features. He can't help but smile at the girl, the enthusiasm radiating from her entire body. She's been so excited about going back to the museum since the moment they left last weekend and she's been dropping some not so subtle hints all week, just to ensure that he doesn't forget.

He's looking forward to returning as well, knowing he'll get to see his kid in action. Watching her run around the exhibit, expressions of awe written across her face at every new piece of information she gathers, is priceless.

"So can we go tomorrow?" she asks hopefully, wide eyes trained on him. She's been using those baby blues to get her way since she was old enough to realize how it worked, and they both know he's no match for them.

Though it's not like he was going to say no, anyway.

"Sure we can," he agrees, grinning at his daughter. "What do you say we stop at Remy's after?"

She nods enthusiastically. "Yes! The shakes are so good!"

"Are you gonna get a different kind or go with your usual?" he asks, brows raised in question.

"Dad, is that even a question?"

He shakes his head. "Chocolate?" She nods. "Should've known. You sure you don't wanna try something else?"

"Nope, chocolate."

"Where's the fun in that?" he whines, laughing at the eye roll he gets in return.

Alexis just huffs. "If your idea of _fun_ is that awful milkshake with a million candies thrown in," she looks pointedly at him, no doubt recalling the infamous milkshake debacle of 2000. "I think I'll stick to my _boring_ chocolate shake."

He waves his hands around dismissively. "Your loss."

She leans in to hug him and snakes an arm around his shoulder, shoving her hand into the bowl next to him. She manages to grab a handful of grapes before he realizes what she's doing.

"Hey, you little sneak!"

"_Your_ loss," she grins proudly as she squirms out of his reach, popping a grape into her mouth. "My gain."

He makes the _I'm watching you_ gesture with his hands but she just shrugs happily and runs up the stairs, the hand carrying the grapes waving wildly behind her.

* * *

><p>"What's for dinner?" Alexis asks, rounding the island.<p>

Rick follows behind, looking over her shoulder at the contents of the fridge. They have plenty of ingredients, plenty of possible options, so it's just a matter of what they're in the mood for. The past few nights have been quick dinners, mostly because Alexis had a heavier load of homework and insisted on finishing it in a timely manner - he still has no idea where she got that from, because it's sure as hell not from him and he doubts that particular trait is from any of Meredith's genes - which meant they needed quick and easy meals.

But it's the weekend and she's already finished the work she needs done by Monday, so they have free range.

"Let's see," he draws out, taking in their options. "Are we feeling Mexican or Italian?"

She purses her lips as she thinks. "Italian," she decides.

"Okay so that narrows it down for us." He moves to take out all of the ingredients for each possible Italian dish he can think of, placing them onto the counter neatly. There's a pile of items lined up, instantly turning their kitchen into a makeshift restaurant for the time being; garlic, eggs, differing cheese assortments, red chilli and black peppers, tomatoes, pancetta, and varying forms of pasta cover the marbled counter top. "Now, do we want carbonara, ravioli, penne all'arrabbiata, or fettuccine alfredo?"

"We had raviolis last week," she reminds.

He nods. "Right. One down." He removes the ravioli ingredients from their lineup. "Three left. What's it gonna be?"

"Hmm." She eyes all of the possible options, her hand placed at her chin. "Penne all'arrabbiata!"

"Excellent choice, m'lady."

She helps him remove the unwanted items and put them back into the cupboard, and then excuses herself to go wash her hands. Rick grabs the garlic, red chilli peppers, tomatoes, and olive oil and starts on the arrabbiata sauce. He makes a mental note to use a touch less of the red chilli peppers than he did last time; everyone still ate it and it was delicious, but he overdid it slightly with the spiciness and Alexis now makes it a point to watch over the sauce so that doesn't happen again.

It was an honest mistake. Anyone could've mistakenly read one teaspoon as a tablespoon, and then added a bit more for good measure. Alright, so the good measure part was all him - but the teaspoon to tablespoon incident was not intentional.

Alexis returns and, as expected, her first order of business is to look into the sauce and inspect it for the offending ingredient.

"I remembered, don't worry," he grins, nudging her with his elbow.

She shrugs. "Just checking," she says. "I'd like to keep my taste buds in working order."

"I have no plans to disgrace your taste buds, I assure you."

He hands her a second pot and instructs her to fill it with water and place it on the stove, carefully, so he can start the pasta. Once it's come to a boil he throws the penne in, stirring it every so often so it doesn't overflow.

The meal is relatively quick once it gets going. It's finished in about forty five minutes, give or take, and he grabs two plates from the cabinet.

"Did you pick a movie?" he calls to his daughter, who's just coming back from the other room.

She shakes her head. "No."

"Why don't you do that while I get this ready?" He nods to the living room with a smile.

He puts the pasta on their plates and pours the arrabbiata sauce over it, sprinkling fresh parsley flakes and parmesan cheese on top for the finishing touch. Alexis is already curled on the couch and has a movie picked out when he brings in their dinner.

"Miss Congeniality? Again, really?"

Alexis lets her head fall against the couch. "Don't pretend you don't love it."

"Whatever do you mean?"

She looks at him. "You know all of the lines," she deadpans.

He holds her plate just out reach, raising his brows. "If that little detail gets out, I'll know it was you."

* * *

><p>The movie finishes and Rick stands up, moaning as he stretches his stiffened limbs.<p>

"Miss Congeniality 2 next time?" he asks, looking down at Alexis as he bends his back.

She nods. "As long as you don't recite that one, too," she looks knowingly at him.

He just feigns innocence, shaking his head as if he has no idea what she's talking about.

"It adds character," he shrugs, moving out of the way just in time as she tries to kick at his legs.

She rolls her eyes and sighs, foregoing an actual reply. He grins as he leaves the room, bringing their plates to the kitchen so he can run the dishwasher. He's watched Miss Congeniality with Alexis more times than any human probably should, so it's no surprise he practically knows the entire movie by heart. His favorite thing to do is recite the lines just as the character does; Alexis groans and he just says it helps him work on his comedic timing, which isn't exactly a lie. His mother's passed some of her dramatic acting flare to him but he still likes to brush up on it from time to time.

Plus, he's the dad - it's practically in his job description to annoy the child.

Playfully, of course.

"Hey, dad," he hears Alexis call him and turns, discarding the dishtowel in his hands as he strides back into the living room. "Isn't this where you went?"

She's switched back from the DVD to regular television, and he catches a glimpse of a news station as he makes his way closer.

"What?"

Alexis nods towards the TV silently. His eyes follow her gaze and stumble upon a news story - it looks like a rerun of an earlier telecast until he sees the time stamp that's displayed on the bottom. He doesn't read the headline, not yet, but he recognizes the familiar setting of the background, of the landscape serving as the backdrop behind the reporter.

"Yeah, it is," he says curiously, eyes scanning the rest of the screen. "It's Ann Arbor."

Huh.

He wonders what's going on over there; he's a little confused as to why he's getting news coverage from Michigan, but then he remembers that it's one of FOX's sister stations, or something similar, which is one of the few channels that'll broadcast country-wide news.

His breath catches in his throat when he realizes what exactly he's looking at, his eyes blinking a few times just to make sure he's not making it up. It's a crime scene, not just a run of the mill news update; there's an ambulance, cop cars, and pedestrians being blocked by police tape, the eager bodies seconds away from breaking right through the flimsy barricade.

But that's not what catches his attention.

It's one of the buildings they keep panning over. It takes a few seconds for it to hit him, but he knows that building - he was just in it a week ago, dropping off bags of groceries to Kate's front door. Normally he'd think his eyes are playing tricks on him, just his brain giving him some more fodder for a story, but the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach has him knowing that's not the case. The corner store they showed a few minutes ago is the same one he stopped in to pick up water and some chips for the airport, knowing that they'd be ridiculously overpriced once he got there.

"It looks bad," Alexis comments, eyes glued to the screen, completely unaware of the fact that her father has gone rigid beside her.

He manages a nod. "Yeah."

It's then that he realizes he still hasn't read the headline; he was so preoccupied by the shock of knowing where that is that he didn't bother reading any further. The scrolling bar at the bottom of the screen has disappeared so he waits impatiently until it returns.

He just about stops breathing when it does.

_A death in Ann Arbor: Accident or possible suicide?_

His heart is in his throat.

The thoughts race through his mind, a combination of worst case scenarios and his own consciousness telling him it's not Kate, that it can't possibly be Kate. _She's not the only one living in Ann Arbor, _he reminds himself. He needs to calm down.

But the _what if's_ are swarming him, beating the rational side of his brain down until the only thoughts that remain are the ones telling him that it's her, that it isn't a coincidence that he saw this broadcast, that _it's_ _her street, Rick_.

He raises the volume and listens to the reporter, a young woman with blonde hair and an expression that screams fake sympathy.

"Authorities were alerted to a disturbance in one of the apartment buildings just a few feet away earlier tonight. Neighbors say they went to ask the tenant to lower their music, but received no answer at the door," the woman goes on, recalling the events of the evening. "The super was called and went in the apartment to follow up on the complaint, when he stumbled upon the body."

Rick's breath hitches.

"The name of the occupant is not being released at this time, but officials confirm it is the body of a woman in her early twenties," the reporter continues. His blood runs cold. "The exact cause of death is unknown, but it's suspected to have been an overdose. Whether the incident was an accident or a purposeful suicide is unclear at the present time."

The camera pans to background where neighbors still linger on the boarder of the police line, a few of them being interviewed. There's another ambulance on the scene and he watches as the medical examiner wheels a body to the coroner's vehicle. One of the officials lifts up the tarp covering the body, probably to point something out to another official, and he sees it. It's impossible to make out any details, but he notices a distinct flash of brown hair.

He suddenly can't breathe. His heart is pounding in his chest, thrashing and hammering against his ribs, threatening to burst out of his body at any second.

His eyes are frantic, trying to get a glimpse of anything else on the screen that will tell him, definitively, that it isn't Kate. His mouth is dry when he opens it and goes to speak, suddenly remembering that Alexis is still there, standing next to him, none the wiser.

"Alexis," he clears his throat, doing his best to keep his voice as calm as possible. "Can you go upstairs, please?"

He tries to smile for her benefit and hopes it's convincing, but the contorted, wary look on her face tells him that it isn't.

"What's going on?" she asks. He can sense the panic in her sparkling eyes and wants to kick himself. There's no reason for her to get worked up; hell, there's no reason for _him_ to get worked up right now either. He knows next to nothing about what's going on.

But that doesn't stop the dread, doesn't stop the goosebumps from appearing on his skin at the sudden rush of cold surrounding him.

"Please," he repeats, looking her in the eye. "Everything's fine." He leaves out the _Probably _and the_ I hope._

She looks unsure but moves towards the stairs anyway, throwing one final look of concern in his direction before she ascends up to her room.

The smile leaves his face the second she's out of sight and he turns back to the television, desperately seeking any more information that might've been released in the last... five minutes since he's looked.

He grabs his phone and dials her number, but there's no answer, and he hastily shoves it back into his pocket. He runs a sweaty palm over the top of his jeans, his fingers trembling of their own accord.

No reason to panic, he tells himself.

It's impossible to even know which building they're referring to, which building the... _incident_ occurred in. The angle of the camera is less than helpful. It's sandwiched between two apartment buildings, Kate's and the neighboring one, and the reporter doesn't specifically mention either one. She keeps pointing behind her carelessly, to neither in particular, and it's driving him nuts.

_No reason to panic_.

The mantra repeats in his mind, over and over again, but it's useless.

Panic is already flowing through his veins, paralyzing his nerve endings, stilling his entire body.

It's a woman in her early twenties.

Brown hair.

But an overdose?

No. Not Kate.

He knows she went through that rough patch a few years ago, did drugs and wound up in a deep downward spiral in the process, but she's not in that place anymore. She said she's stopped using, she said she's clean. She's picking her life back up piece by piece, assembling the broken shards like a jagged jigsaw puzzle, and she's doing a damn good job at it.

He believes in her. He believes _her_.

But the news-

His hands are shaking as he fumbles around in his pockets for his phone once again, unshed tears already threatening to spill from his eyes and down his cheeks. He tries, unsuccessfully, to convince himself once and for all that it's not her, that this is all just a strange chance, a fluke.

He dials her number and listens as it rings. And rings. And rings.

"Come on, Kate," he whispers, his voice low and desperate.

There's no answer.

He tries again, and again, and again, with the same response. No answer.

The shrill ringing taunts him, sends shivers down his spine with each round of unanswered attempts. He hears it echo loudly in his mind, shooting vibrations throughout his body, over and over again until he can't take it anymore.

He has to get up, has to move.

He can't sit still anymore, can't do _nothing_, so he starts pacing, his phone glued to his ear, willing the ringing to stop, to replace the high pitched sound with the soothing tone of her voice. He won't stop until she answers, until he knows she's okay, until he knows she's not the one lying lifeless on that gurney.

The redial button flinches under his touch but he doesn't let up.

"Come on, Kate, please," he whispers to the empty room, to himself.

She has to pick up the phone.

"Please answer, Kate."


	12. Chapter 12

I know this is much sooner than I would normally update, but given the cliffhanger I didn't want to leave you guys hanging for too long. Your response to the last one was incredible, and I appreciate it more than you know. So here it is, and I'd love to hear what you all think!

* * *

><p>It's been an hour.<p>

An hour of pacing and panic inducing unanswered phone calls.

He's not sure when he turned the television off but it's just a black screen now, no longer blaring the news report on a loop, the uninterested eyes of the blonde reporter staring into the loft. He can't do it - can't listen to the words anymore, can't watch as the coroner lifts the body into the van and drives off.

His fingers are cramping and he finally, although reluctantly, stops dialing. A part of him is beginning to believe the news, believe that someway, somehow, it was Kate.

There are still people looking for her – what if they got to her? What if they finally showed up to finish what they started two years ago, whatever that was, and succeeded? He wants to know what she got mixed up in, who she got involved with that started this entire web of problems. Maybe if he knew who they were, he could... _do_ something.

But there's nothing he can do. Even if he knew who they were, there's no way for him to find them, no way to get Kate back-

_No_.

He shakes his head, wiping those thoughts clear from his mind. It's not her. It can't be her.

He won't let it be her.

Trembling fingers ball into fists at his side, nails digging into his palms almost to the point of pain. He can't get his heart to stop pounding and he swears it's three seconds away from catapulting itself out of his chest and onto the living room floor. Where, undoubtedly, it'd continue thrashing, beating to an unsteady, erratic rhythm.

A heavy hand rakes through his hair and lands on the nape of his neck, rubbing at the sweaty skin to calm himself down. It doesn't work, and he didn't expect it to work.

He can't stand there any longer, staring blankly at nothing in the middle of the room, his thoughts miles away. He has to do something before he goes insane, loses what little self control and rationale he has left. His eyes look frantically around at his surroundings as his legs carry him through the study, until they land on his bed - or, more specifically, under his bed.

His suitcase. He's suddenly thanking his lucky stars that he's downright awful at unpacking; clothes still remain folded at the bottom, untouched, from his tour. It takes him about an hour to pack, and then a month or more to unpack. It's a bad habit, an annoying one when he can't find anything he's looking for, but right now it's a blessing.

The phone is still in his hands and he dials another number.

"Mother," he breathes, trying his damnedest to keep his voice calm and leveled when he's anything _but_ calm at the moment. "Can you come over and stay with Alexis?"

"What's going on, Richard?"

He shakes his head, eyes closed, thoughts jumbled in his mind. There's no time to explain over the phone, and he wouldn't know where to begin even if he tried. _There was a news report and the woman I told you about isn't answering her phone so I need to go make sure she isn't dead _sounds crazy even in his head, so he can only imagine how it would sound were he to actually say it out loud.

Instead, he just settles on a strangled, "Please."

She agrees and doesn't ask any more questions - bless her - though he knows they'll probably come once she arrives. She tells him she'll be there in twenty minutes and he hangs up, tossing the phone onto the chair beside him.

He hurriedly throws a few more items of clothing into the suitcase along with his phone charger, toothbrush, and a few other essentials. Everything else he can do without, or, if he really needs anything, just buy it once he's there.

He heads back into the study and goes straight for his laptop. He opens a new tab and clicks a few times, eyes scanning the details quickly - he's taking none of the information in; his eyes are foggy and he couldn't recite back anything he just read - before making a note of it all in his phone, just in case.

The ticket's booked, his suitcase is packed, and now he just has to wait for his mother to show up.

He's going to Michigan, to Ann Arbor.

To Kate.

He doesn't know what he'll find, but he has to know, has to see for himself. If his phone calls are getting him nowhere then he'll just have to get a definitive answer from the source. He can still hear the ringing in his ears, long after he's stopped dialing, and he rubs at his temples to sooth it away. But it doesn't stop. It gets louder, mocking him, his efforts. His failed efforts.

He has the presence of mind to make his way upstairs and let Alexis know he's leaving. She's already half asleep when he walks in, and he hates to wake her up, but he doesn't want her to come downstairs in the morning and have him gone. He tells her that something's come up, and he recognizes the concern in her big blue eyes, even in her sleepy state. She doesn't know what's going on and he assures her that he's fine, that he'll be back as soon as possible, and she nods. She seems to understand, even if she doesn't know _what_, and tells him that it's okay. He can sense the fear and confusion that she's hiding but he does his best to dissolve it as he wraps her in a hug and tucks her back in, placing a kiss to her forehead.

Bless this kid and her maturity.

When he comes back downstairs he hears the jingling of a key in the lock and the door swings open, Martha entering seconds later.

"Richard..." Her voice is questioning, her eyes the same, and he knows she can see right through his calm exterior. She _is_ his mother, after all.

He takes a breath, giving her the answer to the question she's yet to ask. "I have to go back to Michigan."

Her brows crease. "But-" She pauses, something dawning on her as she looks back at him. "The woman?"

"Kate," he says, his voice breaking around her name.

"Is she okay?"

Even she sounds worried now, no doubt because of the waver in his voice, his posture, and just his general disposition at the moment.

He shrugs desperately. "I don't know."

She just nods, doesn't push further. "Go, darling."

He doesn't waste any time before rushing back to his room to grab his things. He reappears minutes later, a coat hanging off his shoulder and his duffle bag in his hand. He gives his mother a quick hug and a grateful smile, and then he's out the door, the nerves ticking away with each passing second.

* * *

><p>His plane leaves in a half hour and he's sitting in the terminal, legs bouncing uncontrollably in front of him.<p>

This is crazy, _he's_ crazy. This is impulsive, even for him; rushing off to Michigan because she hasn't answered her phone, when there could be a million other explanations as to why. If he hadn't seen the news broadcast he wouldn't have called at all - he waits for her to call, to make the first move - and he wouldn't be in the surprisingly empty airport terminal, tears prickling at the backs of his eyes, thumbs twiddling in his lap to keep himself occupied.

But he did see the broadcast. He saw the ambulance, the brown hair, the building he was in a mere week ago. He saw the headline, heard the news reporter rattle off what little information was being released about the incident. An overdose, a possible suicide, a young woman in her early twenties.

That's it. That's all he has to go off of.

It's so little, barely any discernible information, but at the same time it's so much.

_Suicide_. The word plays on repeat in the back of his mind. He pushes it away, doesn't want to think about it, but it fights its way back to the forefront of his thoughts within minutes.

No. That alone should tell him it's not her. It can't possibly be her, the girl who's trying to get her life back, who laughs at his dumb, poorly timed jokes, who teases him about his less than impressive ice skating escapades.

But instead, it just makes him worry more. She's stopped doing the drugs, stopped indulging in that lifestyle, but what if something happened since he last talked to her? It's been a day or so. What if something triggered those old addictions; something awful, something that was too much to handle, and she just snapped. Took matters into her own hands.

She wouldn't, right? He shakes his head, stopping that train of thought before it can go any further. Nothing good can come from it. That isn't helping, isn't decreasing his heart rate in the least, and he needs to stop. He takes a few deep breaths, holding them in for a few seconds before exhaling.

He repeats that process a few more times until he can feel some of the tension begin to alleviate. It's still there, his heart is still thumping, poking and prodding against his rib cage, but he'll take what he can get. He's grasping at straws, anything to keep him from a full on breakdown in the middle of the airport, and this is definitely one of them.

A small, practically minuscule straw, but it's all he has.

He screws his eyes shut and lets his head fall back onto the chair as he waits. His plane leaves in twenty minutes now, and counting down the seconds won't make the time pass any quicker. His eyes open slowly and he grabs the plane ticket from his bag, holding it safely in his hands until it's time to board.

He manages a short, forced chuckle when he thinks about the ticket debacle that occurred thirty minutes before. It seems that in his haste to book his ticket he'd booked a return ticket from Ann Arbor, not a departing ticket _to_ Ann Arbor. The woman worked with him to refund that mistaken flight, replacing it with the flight leaving for Ann Arbor at 11:30. It went smoothly, given the situation, but he saw the way she was looking at him. He's certain she wouldn't normally have been so accommodating for such as stupid mistake, and she probably would've told him that there wasn't much else she could do, apart from having him purchase a completely different ticket all together. He knows she was simply taking pity on him, the man with the disheveled hair and shaky limbs, who was just short of bursting into frustrated tears because of a seemingly small ticket issue.

Of course, it wasn't just the ticket. It was the ticket on top of the gut wrenching worry for Kate, but the woman didn't know that.

He almost calls Tony, because maybe he knows what's going on, maybe he knows if Kate's alright, but he doesn't. He can't. His number isn't in his phone; it's on a slip of paper still tucked away in a notebook he took with him the first time around. It's in his study, in his desk probably, and he _could_ call his mother to ask for it, but he figures she's probably heading to bed, doesn't want to disturb her any more than he already has tonight.

He has Nikita's number, obviously, but he's in Canton, not Ann Arbor. The odds of him seeing the news while he's still training are slim to none, so he doesn't bother.

Rick blinks away a few rogue tears, wiping under his eyes with the pads of his fingers. He's sent her a few more texts and left her a voicemail, which, he knows, she may not get.

She might not get any of the other texts either. Or the missed calls. Or another call ever-

_Stop_.

She's alive. She's alive until he knows otherwise.

That's what he's telling himself, because the alternative is much too painful, but he knows he doesn't fully believe that he's saying. He should try and get some rest on the plane, cease the taunting thoughts that continue to swirl about, suffocating him from the inside out.

Yeah, some rest will be good. The plane ride is two hours, but there's some hour layover in another town - he doesn't know which one, didn't bother asking the woman to repeat it. He can just close his eyes on the way there, numb the pounding of his skull and his heart.

The time finally comes and he boards the plane, sinking into his seat instantly, eyes glued out the window as he waits for takeoff.

He doesn't sleep.

* * *

><p>The streets of Ann Arbor are quiet, almost eerily so; he's sure if he dropped a pin right now he'd be able to hear it echoing down the block, bouncing against the cold pavement. But then again, maybe it's not quiet at all. Maybe it's chaos out there, loud and boisterous, but because the only thing he can hear is his pulse thumping in his body, the voices in his head all but yelling, it's drowning out everything else around him.<p>

He pays the cab driver quickly and doesn't wait for the change before he bolts out, stopping at the corner to look at the names of the streets.

He doesn't know any of the locations by their addresses - only their general vicinity in relation to other place he's been to - so it takes him a few minutes to register where exactly he is. He's a few blocks from Babs, if he remembers correctly, so he makes his way to the bar, knowing he can find his way around town from there. It was his central point before, and it'll continue to be so now.

When he arrives, he doesn't go in. He just stops outside the door and turns, heading in the direction he knows Kate's apartment building is.

There's still snow on the sidewalks, layered atop thin sheets of ice that crack under his footsteps. The storefronts are all dark, the streetlights the only source of light illuminating the windows. He sees a few people outside, walking to and from bars if their drunken staggers are any indication, but he doesn't pay them much attention. The sky is dark, gray clouds hovering over the moon, obscuring it almost completely from his vision.

The chill of the air hasn't let up and he curls his free arm closer to his chest for warmth. Given any other circumstances, he'd think it was a nice night. Not too cold, not too windy, and the sky a beautiful mix of neutrals above him. Maybe once he knows what's going on, he'll appreciate it.

Though, depending on the outcome, it's also possible he'll feel the complete opposite. The neutral gray and black sky could end up mirroring his own self as he grieves for the woman he's only just met a few weeks prior, the woman with so much life still to live.

The fifteen minute walk seems like an eternity, but he's finally there, standing in the same spot he saw on television a few hours before.

It's empty.

The hoards of people who surrounded the area are gone, along with the ambulances, the cops, the news crews. They've all disappeared, and now it's just him.

If he didn't know any better, he would have no idea that he was standing near what was declared a crime scene. There's no police tape to be seen, and he thinks maybe that's a good thing.

Maybe the absence of official vehicles is a good sign, a sign that everything is okay now. That the storm is over.

Well, not entirely. Someone's still dead.

So maybe it's not a good thing. Maybe this means they're done, no longer looking into the death of the woman inside one of these apartment buildings, no longer bothered by the happenings of that evening.

He finally starts moving, making his way towards Kate's building, using the same entrance he had the last time he was there. The building is silent, and he doesn't even hear any noise coming from the other tenants, the other apartments he passes. He doesn't take the elevator - he needs a few extra minutes to prepare himself for what he might be met with upstairs, outside her apartment. His footsteps echo loudly in the stairwell and the hallways, the sound bouncing off the walls with abandon.

He forces himself to come to a halt once he reaches the top, his eyes closing as he takes another deep breath.

There's no one in the corridor, but considering how late it is he figures that's completely normal.

And there it is. Her door, her apartment. It's right in front of him, the large, blocked apartment number staring him in the face.

Again, there's no police tape surrounding it, and his shoulders slump slightly as some more tension is released. No police tape is a good thing here, he's certain of that. If there was tape barricading him out, it'd be a confirmation that it was her apartment where the sui - _death_, the death - had occurred. It would mean that it was Kate that's dead, no longer alive and breathing inside the apartment just feet away from where he stands. But there is none. It looks normal, just as it had when he dropped off her groceries. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, nothing amiss, and he lets out a small, shaky sigh.

He pushes back the hope, for now, until he knows one way or another. His heart, although it's slowed considerably, is still hammering in his chest, the anticipation practically eating him alive at this point. He brings an unsteady hand up and knocks on the door - once, twice, three times.

"Come on, Kate," he whispers, the anxiety of being there and of the entire situation finally making its appearance.

He knocks again, a bit harder.

It occurs to him that if she's not in there, if she's - if she's not _there_, that all of this knocking is for nothing. If no one's in the apartment he's not going to get an answer, regardless of how hard or how frequent he tries. The thought kicks the wind out of him and he fights to catch his breath, his bag falling out of a limp hand and onto the carpet.

He looks around, trying to see if there's anyone else in the immediate vicinity that he could ask, could get information from, but there's no one. He's the only one there, the only one making noise in the otherwise silent hallway.

"Please," he says again, quieter this time, to no one but himself and the cool air surrounding him.

A few more knocks. There are tears dampening his face now. He doesn't know when he started crying, but the tears are there, wet and trickling down his cheeks. He doesn't bother wiping them away, not yet, because he knows it's not over.

His knocks are getting more frantic now, the desperation seeping out with each one.

She has to be in there, has to answer the door.

His hand is in a fist as he goes to knock once more, but then he stops. The door swings open, leaving his hand adrift mid-air as his eyes widen in surprise. His mouth drops open ever so slightly, but no words comes out.

The breath catches in his throat when he realizes what - or who - he's looking at. He's face to face with confused, squinted hazel eyes.

His throat is dry when he finally tries to speak, but the only sound that escapes is a choked sob.

* * *

><p>I honestly had no intentions of ending it here or cutting the chapter in half, but by the time I was done it was almost 7,000 words so kinda felt like I had to.<p>

But on the plus side, this means the next chapter is already essentially done, so once I do the final edit I can get that up later this week!


	13. Chapter 13

Thank you all for your incredible support for the last chapter, and I can't wait to hear what you think!

Also, small warning: there are brief mentions of suicide in this chapter. It's nothing graphic or extensive by any means, but I don't know if any mentions of suicidal thoughts at all will trigger someone and I don't want that to happen.

* * *

><p>"Kate." Her name is a breathy exhale on his lips, somewhere between pure elation and relief.<p>

He's standing there, unable to move, and his feet don't do anything to help him out. He blinks a few times to make sure he's not hallucinating before finally regaining some control of his limbs. He immediately throws himself forward, enveloping her in his arms before she can even say anything, and she lets out a small gasp at the contact.

"Thank god," he sighs, the sound accompanying the terrified breath he's been holding for hours.

He doesn't want to let her go, doesn't want to lose the warmth of her body in his arms. But he can feel her heart beating, the rise and fall of her chest against his, and it's real, solid proof reassuring him that she's _here_. She still hasn't said anything and he starts to worry about what could be going through her mind - as far as she knows he should be in New York, not standing in her doorway looking like he's just gone through some kind of natural disaster - so he pulls away just enough to be able to look at her, both hands still holding onto her forearms.

"Castle?" she asks, eyebrows furrowed in both shock and confusion. The reaction isn't unwarranted. "Why are you- What are you doing here?"

He can't help the tear that slides down his cheek or the hitch in his breath when he finally hears her voice. His only reply is wrapping his arms around her once more, pulling her into him. He can feel her breath on his neck and he swallows, forcing himself to calm down.

It wasn't her. It wasn't Kate. She's alive.

She's here, in front of him, living and breathing and staring back at him with a million questions in her eyes.

_She's alive_.

"You're here," he breathes, running a hand over his face. "You're okay."

Her face contorts slightly but he can't stop the small smile that makes its way to his face. He knows that he's staring at her - in an extremely obvious and unashamed manner - but he can't help it. He doesn't know how to explain everything he's feeling, but he knows that whatever it is, it's miles away from the dread he was feeling just twenty minutes earlier. He takes a few seconds, tearing his eyes from hers, to actually look her over. It's a brief glance at best and he knows he's not taking anything in, but he realizes that she looks as if she just rolled out of bed; he can tell from her eyes that she's not fully awake, her hair is tousled, and she's dressed in giant sweatpants and an over-sized sweater that dwarfs her impossibly small body.

"Why wouldn't I be okay?" she asks, still confused but seemingly more awake with each passing second. She opens the door some more and steps back. "Come in."

He nods, silently stepping beside her and into the apartment. She turns to close the door behind him and he just stands in her hallway, unsure of what to do, what to say. There are a myriad of emotions running through his body, coursing through his veins, and he has absolutely no idea what to do with any of them.

She walks past him and guides him to her couch, nodding for him to sit down. He's still trembling, his entire body on a high, and he wrings his hands together in an attempt to still them. She takes a seat next to him, her hand falling softly, almost hesitantly on his shoulder.

"I thought you were- I didn't know if you were-" He blurts it out suddenly, but he stops, physically incapable of getting out the rest. _I thought you were dead_.

She gets up then, moving around the couch and into her kitchen. He follows her movements, watching as she grabs a glass out of a cabinet and fills it with water before making her way back, dropping down next to him once again. She holds the glass out to him with a quiet, "here," and he thanks her with a smile that still doesn't quite reach his eyes. He's considerably more calm now that he can see her, but the whole thing still has him worked up and he needs a bit longer to decompress.

"Are you okay?" She's looking at him now, concern etched into her features, and he lets out a low laugh.

She's asking him if he's okay.

He spent the past few hours not knowing if she was dead or alive and _she's_ asking _him_ if he's okay.

"The news-" he starts, not knowing what to say or how to get it all out, how to explain it to her. The glass shakes in his grasp, water almost spilling over the edges with the motion, so he sets it down on the wooden coffee table in front of him. "Someone died. Here. In Ann Arbor." Her eyes widen as a small gasp leaves her throat. "Your building was on the news, and the reporter was talking about an overdose or a possible suicide and a woman in her early twenties and they wouldn't say her name and she had brown hair and-" He's rambling, he knows, but once he starts he can't seem to make himself stop. It all comes out in one rushed, long-winded breath; he doesn't bother taking the few seconds to breathe in between and he's gasping for air by the end, fresh tears having trickled out the corners of his eyes and onto his cheeks while he wasn't paying attention.

Her eyes are on him, wide and attentive despite being clouded with sleep. There's something in those eyes, in her face, but he can't pinpoint exactly what it is. As much as he wants to figure it out, he just keeps talking.

"I tried to call, Kate. For over an hour, and when you didn't answer I just- I panicked, and my mind went to worst case scenario and I didn't know if it was you..." He takes a shaky breath, his hands running through his hair. "I saw _your building_ and the ambulance and the body- _God_, Kate, I saw them... I saw them wheel the body and I couldn't get a hold of you and I couldn't breathe and I just-"

"And you thought it was me," Kate deduces quietly, her voice just above a whisper as it cuts into his lengthy speech.

"I didn't want to," he rushes out, scrambling to find the right words. "I didn't want to believe it could be you, but then the small details matched and you didn't answer and-"

"Hey," she interrupts him, moving a bit closer to him on the couch, her hand a firm and comforting weight on his shoulder once again. "I'm okay. I'm right here."

"You're okay," he repeats her words, more for himself than anything else. "You're okay."

"I'm so sorry you were so worried," Kate tells him, genuine concern on her face. She puts her head in her hands and he can practically feel the guilt radiating off her body. That's not what he wants. He doesn't want her to feel guilty at all - this isn't her fault. "I finally fell asleep without... without much trouble so when I woke up the first time, I turned the volume on my phone down and just went back to sleep. I wasn't expecting any calls, I'm so sorry." She shakes her head, her own voice wavering. "I didn't know anything was going on or I would've called and let you know I was okay."

_She was sleeping_.

That's it.

Of course. Alive, just asleep.

A part of him feels silly for getting so worried and he instantly wonders if he is - or was - overreacting. He flew to Michigan in the middle of the night and showed up on her doorstep, in tears and a state of panic. But then he realizes that, either way, it's okay. Because she's okay.

He takes a deep breath and tries to get himself to relax, his body dipping back more comfortably into the cushions. His eyes close momentarily while he just takes a few seconds to breathe, and when he opens them again he's met with a pair of thoughtful hazel orbs looking down at him.

"I'm just so glad it wasn't you," he murmurs, his voice soft and quiet, relief dripping from every word. "I don't know what I would've done if-"

"No," she says firmly. "No what ifs, Castle. You can breathe. Look at me." She waits until his eyes are trained on hers. "I'm fine. I'm right here, okay?"

He nods, slowly letting himself relax a bit more.

He doesn't say anything in response, just continues to revel in the fact that she's okay and sitting right next to him.

"You flew..." Her voice is almost a whisper as she lowers her eyes to her lap. She pauses for a few seconds before she takes a breath and lifts her head back up. "You flew to Michigan."

"Yeah, I did."

"You flew here. To Michigan. To see if I was okay." They're statements but they come out sounding more like questions.

He doesn't know if she actually wants him to answer, but it seems like she can't believe he actually flew out here, so he feels compelled to say something anyway.

"I didn't know what else to do," he says. "I couldn't sit around and wonder if it was you, so I booked a flight and here I am."

She nods her head slowly in response as she takes it all in. No one's ever done this for her before and she doesn't really know how to react. It's sweet, almost overbearingly so. She knows he cares about her - if his constant attempts at trying to talk to her, listening to her nightmare of a past and not judging her, helping her when she calls in the middle of the night with no questions asked, and _buying her grocerie_s are any indication - but she never could have imagined him doing _this_. No one's ever expressed so much care for her or gone to lengths this far - not in a long while, anyway - and she's not really sure what to do with herself, with everything she's feeling. Her hands rake down her face before landing on her chin, a small, emotion-filled smile playing on her lips.

"That's sweet," is all she manages as she blinks away her own tears.

She hopes he doesn't notice, but he does.

There's a prolonged stillness that fills the room; their simultaneous breathing is the only sound to be heard in the absence of words. He finds solace in the steady exhales of the woman next to him, in knowing that she's there with him, and vice versa. His fingers leave his lap and find hers, tentatively wrapping them in his grip. He rubs circles over the soft skin with the pad of his thumb, alternating in the direction every so often. He's not sure if that's too much, too intimate an act for them, but she doesn't pull her hand away - instead, much to his surprise, she curls her fingers tighter around his. He can't stop gazing up at her, still taking in the fact that she's _actually_ sitting there next to him.

"You said it was a possible suicide." She's the one to break the silence, her voice gravely as she clears her throat. "Did you really think I'd- that I'd killed myself?"

The question catches him off guard. He knows it probably shouldn't, knows that he should have been prepared for her to ask at some point. But he isn't, and he doesn't answer right away. Her voice is low, hesitant, and he swears he can hear a hint of hurt weaved in her tone.

He doesn't know.

That's the real answer – _he doesn't know_. He's known her for such a short period of time and while he likes to think he knows her well enough, would love to say he knows she wouldn't do something as tragic as taking her own life, he can't. There's no telling with these kinds of situations; someone could be the human embodiment of sunshine on the outside, but be battling something much darker inside.

And truthfully, he knows she's been in an extremely dark place. She's doing better, and even seems to have progressed some more in the time he's known her, but he can tell that she still doesn't put much stock in the headway she's made. The Kate that he met at Babs that first day was... well, she was a wreck. The Kate he's been talking to for the past week and a half or so, the Kate that's sitting to his left right now, seems happier, more content in herself, but by no means is he naive enough to believe that all of the hurt just _disappeared_.

That's not how it works.

So when he saw that news report, heard about what happened - in her town, on her street, possibly in her building - the first thing, first person that sprang into his mind, was her. That maybe, for some reason unknown to him, she'd finally had enough.

He's never been more ecstatic about being wrong.

"I wasn't sure," he replies honestly and she just lets out a sigh, gives him a look as an invitation to continue. "I hoped not. God, Kate, I hoped it wasn't you, that you wouldn't have resorted to that."

She's still quiet, barely above a whisper when she answers. "I can't blame you, given... well, how I've been. I've thought about it," she admits, a sadness to her voice, and he feels his heart immediately leap into his throat. It takes all of his self control not to pull her into a hug right that second. "But not in a long time. Not in a few years." He lets out a breath and watches as she gives him a small smile. "I never actually planned to go through with it, you know. The thought passed out of my mind as quickly as it came. No matter how bad things got, no matter how bad they _get_, I could never-" She pauses, gives him a look so serious that he has no doubt she means what she's saying. "I just couldn't."

To hell with control.

He sits up and shifts into a more convenient position, his body now resting on the edge of the couch cushions, and tugs her into him. He feels her stiffen slightly against him at the surprise, but then she relaxes and wraps her arms around his back, letting herself lean into him.

"I'm so glad you're here, Kate," he whispers into her hair, the statement so simple but full of so much emotion. He hears her intake of breath and he hopes she knows that he means what he's saying. "So glad. Thank you for never going through with it."

When they finally pull back, she gives him a watery, close lipped smile. He blinks back his own tears as she wipes at her eyes and clears her throat.

"I thought, maybe," he says quietly, hesitation and persisting fear still laced within his voice. "The people looking for you had found you and staged a scene and-"

She lets out a shaky laugh. "I think that's your writer's imagination, Castle," she tries to joke, but it's halfhearted at best and he doesn't miss the break in her voice.

"I'm serious," he says. He doesn't know anything about these people other than that they're looking for her. He doesn't even know why they want anything from her, aside from the tidbits of information she's told him of that night. "There are people who want you _dead_, Kate."

He's met with silence. Her eyes dart down to her lap and he notices her breathing change ever so slightly. "Kate?" She hums, a noncommittal noise coming out of her mouth, but she continues to look anywhere but at him. "Are you okay?"

"I- Yeah, I'm good." She tries to give him a small smile, but it's forced, barely a ghost of a smile, and he knows better.

"Do you know something about these guys?"

She almost whimpers. "Can we just drop this, please?"

"There's something else isn't there." It isn't a question - he can tell there's something she isn't saying, something more going on in that mind of hers.

"Castle, please," she whispers, her eyes pleading with his.

He should drop it, should change the subject and listen to what she's asking of him, but there's _something_ there and he just can't. Pushing is the last thing he wants to do, but if there's something she knows about these guys that could potentially help her - or worse, put her in more danger - then it's better if she gets it out so maybe, just maybe he can actually _do_ something this time.

He lets out a breath. "I'm just trying to understand," he says. "There are people looking for you, people you've been hiding from for two years now, but you don't seem too concerned about it. I just- I just don't understand. Help me understand."

Her reply is so quiet, so jumbled and muffled behind the palm of her hand that he doesn't catch it.

"What?"

She lets out a heavy, wavering sigh. "They caught them," she repeats, barely more audible than before, her voice hardly a hushed whisper.

But he hears it this time and he can't stop the gasp that leaves his throat, his eyes wide as they stare at the woman next to him.

"They caught... the guys who were after you?"

Her nod is almost imperceptible, but he sees it. That's a yes. She's not looking at him, and her hands seem to have become increasingly more interesting as she wrings them nervously in her lap.

The men, the guys that want her dead, have been caught. She's not in danger - well, _that_ danger, he supposes - anymore.

"When?" he questions quietly. He's treading lightly; he knows she probably hasn't told this to anyone, probably hasn't even said it out loud at all, and he can see her bottom lip begin to quiver. This is a sensitive subject, which is obvious, but he can't help but wonder how long she's known.

She coughs, clears her throat to buy herself a few extra seconds. "Five months," she whispers.

_Five months_.

"Five months?!" he exclaims, a little louder than he intended, and sits up straighter on the couch. "Five months. Kate. They're- _they're in custody_." She gives another small nod. "You're safe now. Why are you still in Michigan?"

He really doesn't understand. If she's known that they're no longer a threat, that they've been caught and are now behind bars, then why hasn't she gone back home?

"Because I can't just _go back_, Castle," she sighs as a teary, bitter laugh escapes her. "I was a mess when I left. I'm _still_ a mess. Which has been pretty much confirmed since you thought I might have killed myself." She looks at him, finally, but there's no anger in her eyes. He sees exhaustion, resignation, and a lingering sadness that he wants so badly to wipe away. "I can't just waltz back into my old life like nothing's happened. There's nothing left. I have nothing to go back to, no apartment, no... just nothing."

He hates how defeated she sounds, how - scared? That's it, he thinks, more than anything else. She's scared to go back to New York, to the place where the last memories she has of it are tragic and terrifying, to the place she was forced to escape from.

"Then come back to me."

Her breath hitches. "I- What?"

"Come back to New York, Kate," he starts, continuing before she has a chance to cut him off. "I have a guest bedroom that you're more than welcome to."

"No, I can't." She shakes her head, ignoring the fresh tears filling her eyes. "I can't go back. I can't impose like that, Castle, and I- I have a life here."

He doesn't tell her that this - a one bedroom apartment with barely any furnishings or decorations, little to no food aside from what's left of the groceries he bought, and a bar as her only escape - isn't a life.

"New York is your _home_, Kate. Don't let them keep you from it."

"You don't want me to come stay with you, trust me," she whispers, biting on her lower lip as she takes a deep breath. "My baggage is way more than you're bargaining for."

He frowns. "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't mean it or if I didn't want you there," he tells her firmly, hoping that his tone conveys just how serious he is about this. "You don't have to be alone, Kate."

Silence.

He watches as she sniffles and tries to hide it - unsuccessfully - from him.

"Just, sleep on it?" he asks quietly when she still doesn't say anything. He can't bear to hear her cry anymore.

She sniffles once more, no longer caring about whether or not he sees, and it's accompanied by a long sigh.

"Okay."

His eyes widen just a tad, the corners of his mouth tugging up into a smile. "Okay?"

"Okay," she whispers again, quieter than before. She composes herself after a few seconds and then she's standing, wiping at her eyes once more. "I'll get you a blanket?"

He nods but she's already walking away and into a hallway where he assumes the linen closet is. He doesn't have much time to take anything in or look around before she comes back, a comforter and pillow tucked underneath her arms.

"Thank you," he says as she hands them over, placing them neatly on the couch next to him. "And Kate?"

She looks at him, her eyes big and foggy and full of exhaustion. He stands then, answering her silent question of _what?_ as he wraps her in his arms one more time.

"I'm really glad you're okay," he murmurs lowly into the shell of her ear, the five words taking the remnants of all his pent up emotions with them.

She gives him a soft smile when he finally lets her go. "Me too."

With that, she gives him a quiet _goodnight_ and retreats through the hall and to her bedroom, leaving him alone on the couch.

He fixes the blankets and pillows and then settles down into the cushions, shimmying to get comfortable underneath the comforter. The events of the entire evening replay in his mind as he lays there, his hands coming to rest on his forehead. His thoughts are going wild, and his heart finally begins to beat in a normal rhythm again.

It hits him that he's actually asked her to come back to New York with him. For real this time, not just a rushed afterthought because he doesn't want to say goodbye. There's no threat on her life anymore and he doesn't want to leave her in Michigan, alone and suffering, when he doesn't have to. She doesn't have to be alone, and he just wishes she would realize that.

But she's agreed to sleep on it.

It's not a yes - and with it being Kate, it's truly no indication that she's going to say yes, either - but it's something.

It's not a no.

He closes his eyes, somewhat content for the first time in god knows how many hours, and lets himself relax into the couch. Regardless of what happens, regardless of what she says tomorrow, it doesn't really matter.

Because she's here.

She's okay, she's alive, and for right now, it's not a no.


End file.
